


This Is How I Disappear

by YouKnowNothinJonSno



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: AU not in a band, Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Frerard, It's mostly fluff though, M/M, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, frank talks to himself, gerard has red hair, gerard is a psychopath maybe, playful banter, some homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-06-09 16:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 28
Words: 30,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6914206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouKnowNothinJonSno/pseuds/YouKnowNothinJonSno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank is sick of being bullied for being gay, and is ready to end it. But before he can, a man with bright red hair runs over, grabs his gun, and shoots the three men chasing him. Frank now has no bullets and two choices. Stay here and be arrested for murder, or take his chances with the real murderer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Attempt

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on other fanfiction sites

_I’m going to kill myself. I’m going to do it. Now._ It doesn’t matter that I brought a pen and paper—there aren’t any words left. I don’t have an explanation.  


I wonder if my parents are already freaking out, or if they think I’ve gone to a friend’s house. It’s 6pm, and getting dark fast. _That’s fine. I always wanted to die at night._  


_No. Stop stalling._ I hold my dad’s shotgun, loaded with three bullets. An odd number, I know. Who needs three bullets to kill themselves? I just grabbed a few and stuffed them in my backpack before I went to school. Three bullets. What a waste. I should’ve just grabbed one. It makes more sense.  


Do I have last words? Not that anyone will hear them, in this dark, empty alley. But they’re for me. Do I have anything I want to say before I die? I consider saying I’m sorry, but that would be too insincere. What am I sorry for? If I was sorry to kill myself, I wouldn’t do it. Sorry for causing my family pain? Maybe a little, but that’s so outweighed by the amount of pain _I’m_ in, that it hardly seems to matter.  


I don’t have any last words, just last breaths. I lift the gun to my mouth and put it in. _Click._ It’s loaded. One of three bullets.  


Suddenly, there’s a crash at the end of the alley. I remove the gun from my mouth and look to see what’s going on. _You’re stalling_ , my brain grumbles. _Shut up_ , I think back distractedly.  


Yelling. “Hey! Get back here!” A man darts ahead of the shouters, agile as a cat as he leaps over piles of garbage and puddles of god-knows-what. Three men chase him down. I watch on curiously, still slumped against a dumpster. The chased man is pretty cute, with angular cheekbones that could cut you, and wild red hair. Not natural red, crimson-red. Just gorgeous. And his leonine _body_ ….  


As he catapults down the alley, he catches sight of me sitting here, and starts coming directly towards me. I pull in my legs, not sure what’s happening. _Let them just pass already, so you can get on with it_ , my brain implores. Whether or not I agree with it is questionable right now. Red-head is _fast_ , and I don’t have time to do anything before he’s scooped the gun from my hands and turns to face his pursuers, grinning triumphantly.  


They slow when they’re five yards away, huffing from the exercise. One thug opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, there’s a loud bang, and he drops to the ground. For a second, I don’t understand what’s happened. _Just leave_ , my brain tells them, irritated. With another two bangs, the others fall to the dirty ground as well. Then I get it.  


Stumbling to my feet with wide eyes, I gasp out, “You killed them.” Maybe that was a bad idea, because now he turns to me.  


“No,” he growls, slowly approaching me as I trip over my feet to get away. “You killed them. And then you killed _yourself_.” Advancing another step, he keeps the gun half-raised.  


In my hasty retreat, I back into a pile of garbage bags, and fall into them. _Shit_.  


“Don’t be scared,” the man croons, “It’s what you were going to do anyway, before my friends and I showed up.”  


I swallow a lump in my throat.  


“For a moment there, I was worried you’d only loaded one bullet,” he said, towering over my shaking form. “But lucky me!”  


_Three bullets_. He shot _three_ bullets. I sigh in relief. He can’t shoot me.  


The red-head marks my sigh and narrows his eyes before checking the barrel of the gun. He smiles slightly as he looks down at me again. It’s a terrifying smile. “Lucky you,” he says, and tosses the gun into the garbage bags by my head. Then, to my complete and utter shock, he offers me his hand. Flabbergasted, I tentatively reach out and take it, and he pulls me to my feet.  


“What now?” I ask uncertainly.  


“Sorry I ruined your suicide,” he apologizes.  


I have no words to that.  


“Have fun in jail,” he farewells, and with that starts walking back the way he came.  


Startled, I call after him, “Wait! What are you talking about?”  


He turns back and holds out his hands. That’s when I notice the black gloves he’s wearing and everything clicks. My fingerprints will be the only ones on the gun. There is no proof this red-head was ever here. “No,” I say, “that’s not fair.”  


He cocks his head to the side and frowns petulantly. “Don’t make me say the proverb,” he pouts.  


“Life isn’t fair,” I sigh, but before he can disappear, I start towards him. “Where are you going?”  


He laughs mockingly. “Like I’d tell you.” Then he turns and walks out of the alley. I follow him relentlessly.  


“Take me with you,” I plead. This makes him pause.  


“Why should I?” he challenges, allowing me to fall into step beside him.  


“Because you just ruined my suicide and my life,” I tried. “The least you can do is help me out a little.”  


“Giving you ten bucks is a little,” he says, “Taking you with me is a lot.”  


“You can’t just leave me to get accused for a crime I didn’t commit,” I protest.  


_“Can’t_ I?” he retorts, and I know instantly he hates being told what to do.  


I grab his arm so that he stops walking. “Please,” I implore, locking gazes with him.  


His eyes narrow as he surveys me. Finally, he shrugs off my hand and decides, “Fine. But you follow my rules.”  


“Sure,” I say eagerly. “What are they?”  


“Shut up and keep moving.”


	2. Escape

“Where are we going?” I whisper after walking in silence through back streets for five minutes.  


“What part of shut up don’t you understand?” he grumbles.  


I twiddle my thumbs anxiously. “I just want to know where we’re going.”  


“My apartment,” he growls.  


“How far is it?” I wonder, glancing around nervously, like I’ll get arrested any second.  


He swivels around and I almost run into him, but stop just short. Mere inches away from this gorgeous murderer. How can my breath catch in excitement when I witnessed him kill three people not ten minutes ago?  


“Let me make this very clear to you,” he intones, leaning down slightly so that his red hair brushes my face. “I know how to make people disappear. So if you don’t want that to happen to you, I suggest you do whatever I say.”  


It’s not that I’m not intimidated, but I think his closeness isn’t having quite the intended effect on me. I nod mutely. He smells like cigarettes, and I breathe it in greedily. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to notice my distraction, and again we start to walk.  


The silence that ensues feels tense and awkward, and I’m dying to break it. But I’m afraid to speak for fear that he’ll change his mind about hiding me. If I can even trust him. But what have I got to loose?  


It seems like forever until we get to a ratty building and red-head stops. “Go around the back and wait,” he orders.  


I give him a dubious look. “Why?”  


He glares at me. “Because I said so.”  


I cross my arms like I’m tough. “Why, so you can sneak off and leave me to the police?”  


He grins at me, but I’ve started to notice his smiles aren’t happy. “And if you don’t do as I say, I’ll kill you. So, go.”  


“Suicidal, remember,” I say, but my pulse picks up.  


In a flash, he has a knife to my throat, and I don’t know where it came from, but I can feel it resting against my skin. _It’s a serrated blade_ , my brain notes helpfully.  


His chest is against my back and his mouth is by my ear, which is probably half the reason my heart is racing. I recoil into him, as much as to get away from the knife as to press against him. He chuckles, hot breath tickling my ear. “Not quite,” he says. “Now do as I say, or I slit your throat.”  


“Okay,” I agree in a tense whisper. _His abs are_ really _defined_ , my brain adds. I shiver at the feeling of his body against mine.  


He laughs softly again and lets me go.  


I look at him and see that all he holds in his hand is a key. I frown. “You don’t have a knife.”  


He points to the alley by the building. “To the back.”  


I glumly obey, sure I’ll just be abandoned there. My tongue plays with my lip ring as I go and don’t look back. The alley is deserted, and I notice a large cardboard box that would be good for sleeping in if red-head doesn’t come back. _Of course he won’t come back_ , my brain chides me. _He’s got better things to do than babysit._  


_Like what?_ I reply, just so I can talk.  


_Like murdering people and framing others for the crime_ , my brain suggests.  


_I’m sure he had good reason_ , I protest. _They were chasing him after all._  


_Yes_ , my brain agrees dryly, _I’m sure he’s just a misunderstood guy that you’re not making excuses for just because he’s attractive._  


_You have the right to remain silent_ , I tell my stupid brain.  


_Funny_ , my brain retorts. _You will too, once the police get your prints off the murder weapon_.  


I sigh, and trudge to the street that goes behind the building. Well, it’s not really a street, but a narrow pathway. All the windows are barred and shuttered, even the higher up ones. I sit in a relatively clean spot and wait hopelessly.  


_He’s not coming_ , my brain says softly after I’ve been staring up at the building for a mind-numbing amount of time.  


_What am I supposed to do?_ I snap bitterly. _Go home and wait to be arrested? Oh, and explain to my parents where I’ve been all night. Great idea._  


_Go to that box and sleep_ , my brain suggests gently. _We’ll think of something in the morning._  


_I’ll wait here_ , I say stubbornly. _If he’s not here by morning, I’ll sleep in the box._  


We’re silent for another long period of time.  


_The police might believe you_ , my brain tries, _if you describe him to a sketch artist._  


_Don’t be stupid_ , I reply, sighing. _They have all the evidence they need._  


Suddenly, I hear a tapping noise, and I frantically search for the source of it. _Down there!_ my brain points out, and I see a half buried window at ground level. All I can see through the dirty glass is red hair. I grin as I start to dig the dirt from the pane.


	3. Blackout

Once it’s uncovered, red-head forces it open.  


“You didn’t leave me,” I announce, beaming.  


He gave me a weird look. “No, I just framed you for a triple homicide and threatened to kill you, but I’m here for you now and that’s what counts.”  


_Right_ , I remind myself. _Perspective_.  


“So, _tomato-head_ ,” I try to say insultingly. “What now?”  


He narrows his eyes and one side of his mouth dips into a frown, but I can tell he’s trying not to smile. Instead of answering, he starts to shut the window again, but I stop him.  


“Hey, hey!” I protest. “Wait! Where are you going?”  


He turns back with a glare and shoves the window all the way open again. “Get in the fucking window,” he orders flatly.  


I judge the small opening doubtfully. “Isn’t there a door?”  


“Not for you,” he replies impatiently. “In or out?”  


I brush the dirt off my hands. “I don’t think I’ll fit.”  


The man shrugs unsympathetically. “Try or die.”  


_Well, that’s dramatic_ , my brain cuts in. _Shut up_ , I respond automatically. I lean my head through to see the floor as red-head steps back to give me space. _I wish he wouldn’t_ , I can’t help thinking. _Shut up_ , my brain retorts. I narrow my eyes.  


“Hurry up,” red-head snaps, watching my slow progress.  


I grunt in response and sort of start to slither in, hands first. I grab the sill and squeeze myself through. The window catches me at my waist, and I suddenly realize what a bad idea this is. I’m dangling five feet over a cement floor by my legs. This is going to end with a cracked skull.  


To my surprise, red-head comes over and grabs me around the chest. _Bet ya like_ that _,_ my brain snidely remarks, and I shush it immediately. He tugs at me until my jeans rip on the window ledge and I’m using him to lift my legs through. He lets me go after far too short a time, and I stumble away from his warmth to close the window, so that he doesn’t see my blush.  


“Guess you want new pants?” red-head asks, staring at the ripped and fraying denim around my hips.  


“Yeah,” I say, looking down at the damage. “That would be great, thanks.”  


“Too bad,” he snaps, turning on his heel, and leaving the room.  


“What?” I ask incredulously, following him into the adjacent room.  


“If it ain’t in tatters, it doesn’t matter,” he declares, dismissing the subject. He then gestures vaguely to the room. “Kitchen/living room.” He points his thumb at the room we were just in. “Bedroom.” He points to a door off the kitchen. 

“Bathroom.”  


“Is this a basement?” I ask hesitantly.  


“Yes,” he replies simply.  


“Okay…” I mumble. “Where do I sleep?”  


He jerks his thumb over his shoulder again as he walks to the fridge. “Bedroom.”  


I’m surprised he’s giving up his bed. “Where do _you_ sleep?”  


His thumb hangs in the air still.  


My eyebrows raise; my heart rate doubles. “What…?” I say in a strange voice.  


He grabs two beers out of the fridge and throws one at me, which I fumble with but manage not to drop. He opens his, then tosses the bottle opener at me. This, I drop. He gives me a look that says ‘Really, you couldn’t catch that?’  


I blush as I pick it up. There is a small, bulky TV in the corner of the kitchen/living room, and he flicks it on as he sinks into the ratty couch. I open my beer and go over to join him, before I realize how cozy the couch is. And by cozy, I mean small. The floor has disturbingly large, brown stains all over it that look sticky. Both of us still wear our shoes.  


He sees me hesitate by the couch, and scoots to one side, giving me room. When I sit, our legs touch. His thigh is warm against mine. I just want to rest my hand on it. But I don’t. I would never. The last time I did that, the boy beat me up, and suddenly everyone in school knew about it. I lost my friends and became the number one bully target in a day. Feeling up a murderer might have a little more dire consequences.  


I don’t know what we’re watching—I can’t concentrate on that. My sole focus is for that stretch of skin where our thighs rest against each other.  


“…fast, huh?” red-head is saying.  


“Sorry, what?” I ask, meeting his eyes.  


He cocks his head like he is trying to figure out a puzzle. “You really downed that beer fast, huh?” he repeats.  


I look at the bottle in my hand. It is indeed empty. When did I drink it?  


The TV flicks off suddenly, as do all the lights. “ _Damn it!_ ” a voice roars beside me, and I jump in alarm. Red-head’s hand is suddenly pressing down on my knee, and I stifle a gasp. He lets go a second later, and as my eyes adjust, I realize he’s standing. I get up as well. “What’s going on?” I wonder as he storms into the bedroom. I follow in confusion, tripping over something as I go.  


Red-head is looking out through the window, and then he sighs. “Good. It’s a blackout.”  


“Good?” I ask in bewilderment.  


He turns to look at me with a grin. “I can’t remember whether or not I paid my bills this month. So far, so good.”  


“Ah,” I settle with, as he strides back into the kitchen.  


“Are you hungry?” he asks, and my stomach answers for me. “Good,” he says, “because I have some perishables in the fridge. Do you like”—he surveys the contents in the dark—"eggs? Or, _an_ egg? One left,” he proffers.  


“Sure,” I say, gratefully.  


“Ooh, I make a mean omelet!” he exclaims, grabbing a tomato and a small bag of diced onions.  


_Hmm_ , I muse, _I think he’s crazy._  


_You just now thought of that?_ my brain asks.


	4. Omelet

Red-head does indeed make a mean omelet. But when I say mean, I mean that it seems to be throwing punches at my stomach. It’s half an hour after I ingested the runny egg and now I am kneeling over the toilet groaning.  


“I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal out of it,” red-head is saying with a shrug.  


“You could have at least told me there were marshmallows in it,” I grumble bitterly.  


“Who doesn’t like marshmallows?” red-head protests.  


“In an _omelet_?” I retort, before upchucking into the bowl.  


“I have it all the time!” he exclaims.  


“I don’t think that was cooked enough,” I mumble.  


Red-head scratches his head. “Well…” he intones. “It’s a blackout, so….”  


I look up in astonishment. “You didn’t _cook_ it?!”  


He holds up his hands defensively. “How am I supposed to cook in a blackout?”  


“How the hell did I not realize this?” I mutter miserably.  


“I thought you _would_ ,” he chuckled. “This is priceless.”  


I throw up a drizzle of stomach acid and flush the toilet. He tosses a towel at me, and I wipe my mouth. “Oh!” he shouts suddenly, like he’s had a great epiphany.  


“What?” I ask hoarsely.  


He smiles genuinely. “I went to the dentist last week. So I have a spare toothbrush for once. Good timing, huh?”  


I can’t help but smile tiredly back at him getting so excited over nothing. _He does remember killing three people recently, right?_ my brain has the gall to interrupt. _Oh, shut up_ , I respond exasperatedly.  


Red-head goes off to retrieve the toothbrush with a slight bounce in his step, which makes me snort and shake my head. What a…strange, and wondrous human being, that he can commit murder, get away with it, and be excited about toothbrushes a few hours later.  


“Aha!” red-head yells, jumping back into the bathroom wielding the toothbrush. I jump, startled. “Here you go,” he says cheerfully, handing it over. “Toothpaste is right there on the counter. Mouthwash is…somewhere….” He starts rifling through drawers. “Ah! Found it!” He hands me the Listerine as well, and leaves me to rinse the acrid taste from my mouth.  


“What the hell…?” I mutter to myself, staring after the red-head. _That is the very definition of psychopathic_ , my brain declares.  


_Hey, now_ , I chastise, _don’t be an ass. He’s just…weird._  


_Did you just defend a murderer from being accused a psychopath?_  


_STOP MESSING WITH MY HEAD!_ I yell in frustration.  


My brain shuts up, but I can feel its scrutiny.  


I swish some Listerine around in my mouth. _What?_ I ask finally.  


_I am your head, Frank. We’re the same person. Don’t forget that._  


I spit the mouthwash into the sink. _I know that, obviously_ , I reply sulkily.  


_If you want me to go away, you just have to stop talking to me_ , my brain further adds.  


I clench my teeth. _I know._  


_Do you want me to go away, Frank?_ my brain asks seriously.  


I work my jaw for a moment, letting the question hang there. Then I take a deep breath and blow all the air from my lungs. “No,” I whisper.  


“No, what?” a voice behind me asks.  


I whirl around to find red-head leaning on the doorframe. “Nothing,” I say unconvincingly. “I was just thinking.”  


He narrows his eyes at me infinitesimally, but doesn’t comment on it further. Instead, he gets down to business. “I only have one pillow.”  


I cough on toothpaste briefly. In the mirror, red-head’s mouth twitches. “Okay…” I trail off, not knowing how to proceed on this topic.  


“It’s _my_ pillow,” red-head insists, all toothbrush-finding-joy from earlier gone. “And if you even touch it, if you even look at it, I’ll put that pillow over your face and see how you like it then.”  


I swallow. “Got it,” I squeak. _Told you he was a psychopath_ , my brain hisses. _What, a guy can’t like his pillow?_ I counter, but I have to agree.  


He smiles his menacing smile. “Good.” Then he’s gone again.  


I finish brushing my teeth and rinse my mouth with water, when suddenly the bathroom light flickers on.  


“Whoo-hoo!” I hear from somewhere else in the basement. “We have THE POWER!”  


I raise my eyebrows at my reflection, before returning to the living room and the eccentric man in it.


	5. Sleep

I yawn, and the force of it makes my eyes water. Red-head’s jaw twitches, and I wonder why. His nostrils flare. Is he angry? That puerile frown contorts his lips for a moment, before he opens his mouth as wide as it can go and yawns with a bellow. I turn to stare at him with a ‘what was that?’ expression on my face.  


He catches my eye as another yawn shudders through him, and tells me, “Stop yawning.”  


I’m trying to label his brand of crazy, when another yawn arises within me. Unable to resist it, I yawn, and my eyes tear up again.  


“Stop it,” red-head says, annoyed, whilst yawning.  


“I can’t,” I yawn back, blinking away the moisture.  


“Yawns are contagious,” he informs me, grumpily yawning. “You have to stop.”  


The next yawn I clench my teeth for.  


Yawning for the fifth time, red-head stands up from the cramped couch and switches off the TV. “I guess they’ll find the bodies tomorrow morning. I’m gonna sleep. You tired?”  


I nod, but I think my yawns answer for me.  


He heads to the light switches and shuts them all off so it’s pitch black. I stand, trying to find my way to the bedroom. As I make my way over to where I think the doorway is, I trip over something on the floor, and fall face first to the ground.  


_Yes_ , my brain remarks, _those brown stains_ are _sticky_.  


_Thanks for telling me_ , I say dryly, picking myself up.  


Suddenly, there are hands on my waist, my arm. I think I stop breathing for a second.  


“Man, you are clumsy,” red-head mutters from above me as he helps me stand.  


“Uh,” I reply breathily, “yeah, sorry.”  


He releases me once I’m up, but I wish he wouldn’t.  


_Don’t do anything stupid_ , my brain warns me out of nowhere.  


_What do you mean?_ I ask, recovering from his touch and following his shadow into the bedroom.  


_I mean_ , my brain intones, _He’s insane, and even though—for whatever reason—you’re attracted to him, you better not do anything to act on that, or you’ll be dead in an instant._  


_You don’t know that_ , I protest weakly.  


_Oh, you’re right!_ my brain snarks. _Let’s test this theory on a murderer!_  


_Shut up_ , I sigh, deflated.  


Red-head moves his pillow to one side of the queen-size mattress that is flopped on the floor, and draws an imaginary line down the middle. “I get left, you get right. Cross this line, and I will kick you into last week,” he informs me calmly.  


_See?_ my brain whispers. I try to ignore it.  


“Great,” I reply out loud. “ _Before_ I was framed for murder.”  


Red-head glares. “Are you really still hung up about that?”  


I stare incredulously. “Yes!” I exclaim vehemently. “I mean, it’s _murder_ , not cheating on a test! I’ll be a fugitive for the rest of my life!” I stop as this realization hits me. “The rest of my life….” I sway a little on my feet, and instantly red-head is there by my elbow, guiding me to the bed.  


For the first time all night, I don’t get excited or nervous by his light touch. He sits me down, but I barely notice. “I’ll never see my family again,” I whisper to no one. “I’ll never go home….” Tears come to my eyes and I can’t prevent them from leaking out.  


Beside me, red-head sighs heavily. “God damn it,” he mutters.  


_Did I do something to deserve this?_ I ask my brain.  


_You mean, other than being gay?_  


_That’s not fair,_ I say. _That’s not my fault…. Is it?_  


My brain seems to sigh. _If you could choose not to be gay, wouldn’t you have done it already? All it has brought you is loneliness and bullying. It’s not something you can choose, it’s who you are._  


_I tried once,_ I reply, sobbing into my hands, _to like girls. But they just…. I don’t know. They aren’t attractive to me._  


_I know_ , my brain sympathizes.  


_I’m wrong and pathetic_ , I growl. _I should have killed myself._  


_NO_ , my brain denies forcefully.  


_What?_ I ask, surprised. _Why not?_  


_This could be your chance at a new life_ , my brain explains carefully. _Maybe even…with this guy._  


I bite my lip ring. _Why do you keep changing your mind? It’s so confusing._  


_Because you don’t know what to think_ , my brain answers, and then I’m alone in my head.  


I realize I’ve stopped sobbing, and am just sniffling now. Red-head hands me some tissues for my runny nose. I almost forget myself and hand the used tissues back to him, but instead I stand and make my way to the kitchen where I throw them away. When I walk back into the bedroom, red-head puts the pillow in the middle again.  


I tongue my lip ring nervously. _Is he throwing me out?_  


But he just says, “I’m going out. Bed’s all yours.”  


I furrow my eyebrows as he zips up his jacket and heads for the door that leads out of the basement/apartment. “Even the pillow?” I check.  


He graces me with a small, sincere smile. “Yeah. I’ll be back in the morning.” And he’s gone.  


For a moment, I stare after him. Then I go to the bed, place the pillow back on his side, and curl up to sleep on the other.


	6. Ransom

I wake to the mouthwatering aroma of bacon frying, and literally launch myself out of bed to get to it. There is an instant of confusion as I take in the stained floor and cramped living quarters before my brain reminds me, _red-head._  


I burst into the kitchen/living room and rush over to the TV, where I turn on the local news.  


“—triple homicide in Belleville, New Jersey. Police are speculating that it might be a mob hit. The murder weapon was found at the murder scene, but all fingerprints were wiped. My name is Elizabeth Browns, and we’ll be right back after the break.”  


I’m bewildered. “No prints?” I exclaim. “They found the gun, but there were _no prints_?”  


Red-head meanders over and sets a plate of bacon and eggs on my lap. “Cooked,” he promises. “No marshmallows.”  


I hungrily, but warily take a small bite. It’s _delicious_. I wolf the rest down.  


“Woah, there, boy,” red-head says as I hand him the empty plate. “You still hungry?”  


I beam at him with egg in my teeth and nod enthusiastically.  


He laughs and goes to refill it. “Coffee?”  


“Oh, yes, please!” I shout out, then realize how rude I’m being. “I’ll, uh, do the dishes,” I add humbly.  


“Good,” red-head replies. “I hate doing them.” There are dark circles under his eyes.  


“Did you sleep at all last night?” I wonder.  


“Can’t you tell?” he replies rhetorically, grinning as he sips his coffee.  


I shake my head as he brings over another heaping plate for me. Just as I’m taking the first bite, the news comes back on and my picture appears on screen. I spit the eggs all over the brown-stained floor.  


“In other news, local teen Frank Iero was reported missing late last night by his distraught mother. The police wrote him off as an irresponsible teenager that would be back in the morning, until his schoolbag was found two blocks from the Belleville murder scene. A ransom note was left in the backpack that read: ‘One million dollars by noon tomorrow, or he dies.’ Police refuse to comment on whether there is a connection between the two crimes.  


“Meanwhile, are our children dumbing down? Find out more after the break.”  


My mouth hangs open. Red-head coughs, and sits down next to me slowly. “Well,” he says, turning off the TV, “there’s that.”  


I turn towards him and manage to whisper, “What’s going on?”  


Red-head scratches the back of his neck. “I may have…revisited…the area, when I went out last night.”  


I gawk at him. “So you left a _ransom note_ in my _backpack_?”  


“Yep,” he responds simply.  


I open and close my mouth a few times before settling on, “ _Why_?”  


Red-head glares at me. “Would you rather you were being accused of murder?”  


I don’t have an adequate response to that.  


“Well,” I reply after an awkward moment, “I guess this means…I can go home.” But I don’t move towards the door, I just stand there waiting for…something.  


Red-head scratches his head, a nervous habit it seems, but says nothing.  


Inexplicably disappointed, I turn on my heel, and head towards the exit.  


“Wait!” red-head exclaims suddenly, and, surprised, I do. He places himself in front of me, hands out as if to touch my chest. But of course he doesn’t. _Don’t hope_ , my brain advises, and I mentally swear at it.  


“What?” I ask, but my tone is more bitter than I meant it to be.  


Red-head shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I’ve kidnapped you,” he tells me nervously. “You can’t leave.”  


_This is unbelievable_ , I inform my brain.  


_It certainly is hard to believe_ , my brain responds.  


“Um, what?” I eloquently question him.  


“Yeah,” he says agreeably. “You aren’t going anywhere unless I get my money in”—he checks his watch—”five hours.”  


I snort. “What, and if you don’t get it, you’ll kill me?”  


Red-head stares at me stoically.  


I subtly swallow. “I—you can’t keep me here,” I state defiantly, though this is a gross untruth.  


Red-head raises his eyebrows, because, you know, I _am_ half a foot shorter than he is. “Would you like me to try?” he asks threateningly.  


_YES_ , my brain answers for me, and on this note we are in total agreement. I cough and try to glare. “My family doesn’t have that kind of money,” I growl at him.  


He cocks his head. “Are you saying I shouldn’t bother waiting to kill you?”  


“No!” I backpedal hastily, “Just, uh….” I wrack my brain for some sort of pacifying comment. _I got nothing_ , my brain supplies. _You are so helpful_ , I praise in return.  


Red-head watches me expectantly.  


_I can do this_ , I mutter to my brain. _Bluffing just takes confidence._ My brain puts in its two cents with, _Oh shit._  


I lift my chin to stare him down. “You won’t kill me,” I declare without doubt present in my voice, while my brain boosts my confidence with a chorus of: _Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit._  


All red-head does is twitch his eye, and my brazen facade shatters. _Oh shit_ , I echo back to my brain. _Oh, man._  


_Best idea you’ve had yet_ , my brain replies sarcastically.


	7. Captive

“I won’t, huh?” red-head asks almost sweetly. His deadly smile appears.  


“I…” I fumble, backing up, and tripping over my own feet. Falling gracefully on my butt, I scoot away from red-head’s advancing form and brave the sticky floor.  


“You…what?” he taunts, standing over me so I have no where to retreat to.  


I blubber something about his obviously high moral standards, and that he wouldn’t want to sully them over something so trivial. Red-head nods along with my points, then crouches down by my head. “One million dollars isn’t trivial, Frank,” he says seriously.  


“But murdering me despite the utter nonexistence of it kind of is,” I allow my brain to retort directly.  


“Murdering y—murder isn’t trivial,” he stutters with a frown.  


I sit up carefully, now that he isn’t smiling gruesomely anymore. “You could’ve fooled me,” I reply, inflectionless.  


His eyes narrow, like he’s thinking. I stay silent as he does. Finally, red-head stands and offers me his hand, which I couldn’t refuse if he held a knife in the other. He pulls me to my feet and right into his chest. His angelic face is inches from mine as he levels a glare at me. “You stay here. You’re my captive. Got it?”  


I nod, because it’s not like I can speak when he’s this close to me. When he pulls away, he moves his hand to my shoulder and leads me to the couch, flicking on the news again. My face happens to be showing, along with the three dead thugs. Our names are printed across the bottom of the pictures while the newscaster juggles theories and facts.  


“Now,” red-head says, sitting us down on the short couch, “what’s wrong with this picture?”  


_His leg is touching mine_ , I tell my brain urgently, who replies with, _I know_. “Um,” I respond to red-head, “my face is on the news with a trio of dead guys?”  


“No,” red-head says slowly. “Look closer.”  


_But, HIS LEG IS TOUCHING MINE!_ I hiss distractedly. _Answer his question if you don’t want to look like an idiot_ , my brain advises.  


“I…” I gamble, “look stupid in that photo?”  


“You don’t look stupid,” red-head protests, then gets back on topic. “No, look at the words on the screen,” he prompts.  


I read the scrolling at the bottom: “Police are baffled by the lack of evidence in either of the simultaneously committed crimes—”  


“The names!” red-head interrupts impatiently.  


I look at the thugs’ names. “Ronald Garcia, Freddie Roark, and Martin Roark. What about—?”  


I am cut off by the remote controller bopping me not-so-lightly on the forehead. “Ow!” I complain.  


“I had to find out your name from the news!” red-head fumes.  


“Ow. Oh,” I mumble, perplexed. _He wanted to know my name? Why didn’t he just ask?_ I wonder.  


_Maybe he was nervous_ , my brain suggests, and I mentally slap it.  


_Stop encouraging me_ , I scold it as hope flares through me.  


“I let you sleep in my room while I’m out all night covering your tracks, and you don’t even tell me your name?” red-head demands, annoyance clear in his tone.  


“Yeah, covering up for the person you originally _framed_ for the murders,” I remind him.  


“You are so ungrateful,” red-head snaps. “Do your parents just let you do whatever you want?”  


I roll my eyes. “And now you’ve apparently kidnapped me for ransom,” I grumble. “What am I supposed to be grateful for, exactly?”  


“For saving your life,” red-head growls, and then he’s up off the couch and stalking to the bedroom.  


This novel idea hits me with the force of a train. _He_ did _save my life_ , I marvel. _If he hadn’t come running by, I would have killed myself. Or chickened out, and returned to a life not worth living. Then what? I’d try again later. So, oddly enough, this red-headed murderer and now captor is my salvation._  


I amble shyly over to the closed bedroom door, and knock softly.  


“What?” he grumbles in agitation from behind the door. I turn the knob, and slip into the room. I’m about to speak when I see him standing by the bed without a shirt. _Oh, man,_ I whimper helplessly to my brain. _Uh-huh_ , my brain agrees, apparently having turned to mush. _He’s…._ I can’t even finish the thought. _Mmm_ , my brain replies, for lack of a better word.  


“ _What_?” red-head repeats as I try and fail to avert my eyes.  


I cough into my hand, hoping my blush doesn’t show. “I just…” I attempt to tell him, but my voice wobbles. I clear my throat and focus only on his face, which is surprisingly difficult, despite how gorgeous his face is. _But that body…_ my brain moans. _Not helping_ , I tell it stiffly. “I just wanted to apologize for how petulant I was being. You’re right. You did save my life. I didn’t realize it before. So…thanks.” I let out a breath and struggle not to look down from his hazel eyes.  


He quirks his lip almost unnoticeably. “My pleasure.”  


I stuff my hands in my pockets and nod awkwardly. Red-head watches my internal battle. _He’ll see if you look_ , my brain tells me. _Who cares?_ I ask, eyes watering from staring so intently at his eyes.  


Finally, red-head speaks. “I’ll be sleeping.” My eyes can’t be controlled any longer and run down the length of his body reverently. Blushing, I nod once and quickly turn away, leaving the room and closing the door behind me. _He didn’t see that, did he?_ I panic.  


_I don’t know. I’m not him,_ my brain replies in all helpfulness.  


I sigh. _What do I do all day?_  


_Watch the news?_ my brain suggests.  


_Oh, yeah, a nice, relaxing activity._  


_And_ not _watching it is_ less _stressful to you_ , my brain concludes dubiously.  


I flop onto the couch and turn my attention to the newscaster.  


“The police are now saying for certain that the two crimes are connected, but aren’t so open on how they are. Missing teen Frank Iero’s family has yet to receive any ransom instructions. Is it because he is the killer? Find out more with our up-to-date coverage. My name is Elizabeth Brown, and we’ll be right back after the break.”  


_Yes_ , I tell my brain, _I think not watching it_ would _have been less stressful_.  


“Hey!” I yelp, running to the bedroom. “Hey, er, Tomato-Head!”  


“What now?” he groans, sleepily.  


“You need to make a phone call!”


	8. Guess

“Wait, wait,” red-head interrupts my desperate rambling. “Now you _want_ to be held for ransom?”  


I nod mutely.  


“And you want me to call your family with directions for the drop, risking myself so that the newscasters stop _speculating_?” He rubs a hand through his already ruffled red hair.  


“If the news thinks that I’m guilty, the police can’t be far behind. Besides, I thought you were serious about the whole ransom thing.”  


Red-head yawns. “Why should I?”  


“Well…” I stall, thinking wildly, “You…uh….” _Crap_ , I say at a loss.  


Red-head rubs his tired eyes. “Look. I was out all night covering your tracks. Even if they do suspect you, they have no proof you were there.”  


I gnaw at my lip ring anxiously. “But what if you missed something?”  


Red-head glares. “Like what? Your backpack was unopened, and the only thing you touched was a gun. I even wiped down the dumpster you were leaning against.”  


I continue worrying my lip ring until a thought hits me. “T-there was a scrap of paper,” I stutter out, “and-and a pen.”  


Red-head freezes.  


“You saw it?” I guess. “It’s still there?”  


Red-head exhales heavily. “If they test it for prints, all they’ll glean from it was that you owned a pen that was at the scene of the murders. They already think you’re connected. That’s not evidence to accuse you of murder, unless you falsely confess.”  


“How do you know?” I challenge.  


“Because my brother and I watched a lot of cop shows growing up, and then he became a cop,” red-head replies.  


I am suddenly imagining a bigger version of red-head slumped on the little couch wrestling with his little brother over the remote. This makes me smile. “Your big brother’s a cop?” I chortle. “Well, that’s ironic.”  


“No,” red-head snaps, “he’s my _little_ brother.”  


“Oh,” I say, taken aback. _A_ littler _red-head wrestling him for the remote._ “Oh. How old is he?” I wonder, because red-head is already pretty young.  


His jaw twitches for some reason, but he answers anyway. “Nineteen. Three years younger than I am.”  


“You’re twenty-two,” I decide to state the obvious. “I figured you were at least twenty-five or something,” I expound, to make it less awkward.  


Red-head’s expression doesn’t change; he doesn’t speak.  


“What’s his name?” I blurt and mentally smack myself. _You ask for his brother’s name when you don’t even know his own_ , my brain congratulates me. _Your manners are superb_. “I mean,” I add quickly, “I don’t know _your_ name either….”  


“Our names are Mikey and Gerard,” red-head answers easily.  


_Mikey and Gerard. Wait._ “Which one…?”  


Red-head smiles challengingly. “Guess.”  


_Okay, guess. Mikey or Gerard. Does he look like a Mikey or a Gerard?_  


_He looks like neither_ , my brain puts in.  


_Or either_ , I agree.  


“You don’t have to agonize over it,” Mikey-or-Gerard tells me. “I’ll just correct you if you’re wrong.”  


I bite my lip ring. “Um, Mikey?” I hazard a guess.  


His lips quirk upward infinitesimally. _And you only noticed because you tend to stare at them_ , my brain remarks. I cough a little, and look at his hazel eyes.  


“Yeah,” he says with mirth lining his voice, “I’m _Mikey_.” Then he erupts into laughter.  


“Right, you’ll just correct me if I’m wrong, will you?” I retort dryly.  


“I’m sorry,” he gasps out. “Your face was just too good!”  


I shook my head and rolled my eyes. “So it’s Gerard,” I confirm.  


He nods as his laughter dies down. “Or is it?” he counters seriously after a second.  


I hesitate. “ _Is_ it?” I ask warily.  


“Maybe,” he says cryptically.  


“You are…infuriating,” I reply. _It’s Gerard, definitely Gerard_ , I assure myself and my brain.  


_That’s redundant_ , my brain chides. _I_ am _you_.  


_Yes, I am aware_ , I reply. _But it’s Gerard, right?_  


_Yes_ , my brain answers to my satisfaction. _Or_ , it continues, _it could be Mikey, or even some other name._  


_Oh come on,_ I reason. _Why would he lie about his name?_  


_Reason number one: he’s a murderer. Sometimes murderers aren’t the most honest people in the world. But, hell, maybe I’m too quick to judge—his abs would never lie to you_ , my brain snarks unwelcomely.  


I indulge my eyes momentarily. _Okay, cut the sarcasm_ , I order.  


_Or maybe it’s just that he has a really odd name, like Slartibartfast._  


_No one would name their kid that,_ I inform the fan in my head.  


_The point still stands_ , my brain insists. _Or maybe his name is Frank, and thought that would be an awkward admission._  


I raise my eyebrows slightly. _That_ would _be awkward_ , I muse. _Imagine dating someone—I mean,_ knowing _someone with the same name as you. Weird._  


_I heard that Freudian slip_ , my brain intercedes smugly, _and I’m the only one who heard it, so there’s no need to correct yourself._  


_There was nothing Freudian about it_ , I deny. _Just the wrong word._  


_Oh, of course_ , my brain placates sardonically. _Totally just a normal slip of the tongue._  


_Shut it_ , I demand.  


_Okay, but you’ve been zoning out while staring at him for the last couple of minutes_ , my brain informs me.  


_Damn it._ Red-h—Gerard(?) is gazing right back at me questioningly. “Uh, sorry, spaced out,” I mutter, looking down at my feet where we stand on the threshold to his bedroom.  


“So…” Gerard _(_ is _it Gerard? or is it_ Mikey _?)(or is it_ Frank _?)_ says and I look up again. “The ransom note?” he reminds me.  


“Oh, yeah!” I exclaim, glancing at the watch on his arm. “You gotta make that phone call right now!”  


“You’re lucky I have some spare burner cells,” he grumbles, retreating into his room. _Nice back_ , my brain commends.  


_Thought I told you to shut up?_  


_You were thinking it too_ , my brain defends, _but lapses back into silence_.


	9. Bullies

I type in my home phone number into Gerard’s—if he says that’s his name, I might as well call him by it—burner cell at 11:25am. Handing it off to my red-haired accomplice, I bite my lip ring and listen to it ring. My mother picks up almost immediately.  


“Hello?” she asks breathily. “Hello? Iero residence.”  


Gerard doesn’t answer for a long moment, dramatizing the call, I suppose.  


“Hello?” my mother repeats, panicked.  


“Do you have the money?” Gerard asks, lowering his voice so that he sounds like Batman. _He’s way hotter than Batman_ , my brain mentions.  


_I agree wholeheartedly, but now is not the time_ , I whisper.  


My mom takes a deep breath. “Yes,” she breathes.  


“Good,” Gerard says, looking at me accusingly.  


I shrug helplessly, because honestly I had no idea they could pay.  


“Bring it to the alley where the police found his backpack. Put it in the backpack and walk away. No cops.” Gerard is tapping the fingers of one hand against his leg. I sit on the couch as Gerard paces in front of the TV, the news on mute.  


“I want to talk to my son,” she says stiffly, and I can hear the tears threatening her voice. I think my lip is starting to bleed from where I’m biting it, but I don’t care. _Maybe this was a bad idea._  


_Maybe?_ my brain retorts. I ignore it.  


Gerard’s face is stony as stops pacing and holds the phone to my mouth. I’m paralyzed until he slaps me across the face, hard. _Ow, what the hell!_ I think sourly, rubbing my cheek. I groan a little and my mom starts shrieking hysterically. “Frank? Frankie?! Are you okay? Don’t be scared, baby, you’re gonna be fine, I promise. I love you, Frankie! I’ll see you soon!”  


“It’s okay, mom,” I try to say reassuringly, but for some reason, my voice breaks. “It’s okay.”  


Gerard yanks the phone away, and growls, “It’s 11:30 now. You have half an hour to drop it off, without cops, or your son is dead.” He hangs up.  


“You really _did_ watch a lot of cop shows,” I manage to say.  


Gerard stands awkwardly in front of me. “I’m sorry,” he says stiffly. It doesn’t sound sincere.  


_Because he’s a psychopath_ , my brain has the grace to remind me. _And psychopaths don’t feel anything, especially guilt. If you just start thinking of him as a dangerous, unfeeling murderer, maybe you won’t be so disappointed when he doesn’t hold your hand and tell you you’re beautiful._  


“I never said I wanted that!” I shout, before I realize I’m speaking out loud.  


Gerard steps back in shock, then his expression darkens and he towers over me. “You _asked_ me to make the call,” he spits. “And I know it’s not just so that the police think you’re innocent. I know why you wanted them to think you were being held hostage.”  


“What are you talking about?” I ask, standing so that he has to step back again.  


But he doesn’t. The lengths of our bodies are practically touching. I can’t utter another word.  


“Do you think I’m blind?” he counters. “Do you think I’m an idiot? I see the way you walk, with your head bowed, trying not to be noticed. I see the almost unnoticeable limp in your step. There are bruises all over you! How can you want to go back home to that abusive environment?”  


My mouth hangs open. “Are you implying that my parents beat me?” I ask flatly.  


Gerard works his clenched jaw. “That or you’re bullied at school. Probably both.”  


“My parents,” I say, my voice rising, “love me! They want only the best for me! They would never hurt me in any way!”  


“So just school?” Gerard is fuming visibly.  


I swallow, staring him down for another moment before I drop my eyes and sit at the very edge of the couch. “It doesn’t matter,” I say steadily, but my voice is too quiet to hear.  


He sits down beside me, closer than he has to. “ _You. Matter_ ,” he says solemnly, and I can’t help shaking my head slightly and turning away. His hand shoots out to grab my chin and forces me to face him. “No matter what those ignorant bastards say about you, _they_ are the ones who are meaningless. I know it’s hard. I know the things it can drive you to do. But if you let them get to you, they win. Don’t give them the satisfaction; don’t let them play god over your life.”  


I try to knock his hand away, but he grabs it in his other instead.  


“You need to know that there will be people in your life that will love you _despite_ your flaws, and then there will be people who love you _completely_ , flaws included. Those assholes don’t define you.” His hand is hot on my face, his other hand burning my own.  


“Okay,” I say in a strained voice. “I get it.” I jerk my chin away and snatch my hand back. I don’t want to, but if I don’t, I’m afraid I might do something stupid.  


“ _Do_ you?” he interrogates fiercely, leaning towards me as I cringe into the sofa arm. I can feel his breath hitting the side of my neck. _Why is he doing this? Stop._  


“You are not alone,” Gerard says in a gentle voice, the smell of cigarettes the only scent I can pick up.  


I stand up quickly, and move a few steps away from the couch, where Gerard is leaning into the empty space that I was just sitting in. He looks at me, surprised I moved. _Surprised?_ my brain unhelpfully asks. _Or disappointed?_


	10. Mistake

“I don’t need your pity talks,” I recite shakily, like I have to all the shrinks my mom sent me to. “I can handle my own problems. I’ve heard it all before, okay, and it’s never helped, so, just stop.”  


Gerard stands and walks toward me slowly. He pauses when he’s just a few inches in front of me, and my body longs to close the distance, but I know it can’t.  


_Why not?_ my brain inquires.  


_Because I don’t want to push him away_ , I reply sadly.  


He brushes past me towards his bedroom, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. But before he’s completely past, he grabs my hand and tows me along with him. _What’s going on?_ I panic. _What’s he doing? Why are we going to the bedroom? Brain, what’s happening?_  


_Um?_ , my brain explains, _guess you’ll find out._  


I think my eyes have popped out of their sockets, and _do I have asthma? Because it’s getting really hard to breathe._  


_Since when do you have asthma?_ my brain asks.  


_I don’t know_ , I answer. _Now?_  


_I think it would be really pathetic if you had a panic attack just because he’s leading you to his bedroom_ , my brain intones. _I mean, for whatever reason he’s taking you there, it’s still highly pathetic._  


Gerard lets go of my hand and goes to the dresser drawer, as I stand in the doorway trying to breathe again. _In through the nose,_ my brain chants, _out through the mouth._  


_Okay_ , I interrupt, regaining my composure, _I’m fine._  


_Good, ‘cause he’s coming back_ , my brain warns, and Gerard walks over holding a paper. He hands it to me, and on the photo is Gerard with black hair, and a guy with dirty blonde hair and glasses. _Cute_ , my brain observes, taking in the blonde. _Shut up_ , I respond, curtly.  


“That’s my brother, Mikey,” Gerard tells me, unnecessarily pointing at the blonde.  


“Oh, yeah,” I reply, confused as to how this came up. “The cop.”  


Gerard nods, and continues, “He was bullied in school. All the time. It was really bad. Sometimes, he even had to go to the hospital.”  


I swallow, remembering the times I had to go to the hospital.  


“Day after day, he’d come home with bruises on his face and body. And I couldn’t do anything about it. He wouldn’t tell me who did it at first. It was killing me. I tried to alert the school about it, but they said there was nothing they could do. I tried to call the police, but they said it wasn’t their job to stop bullies. The asses.  


“Then one day, Mikey didn’t come home from school, and he wouldn’t pick up his phone. I called the cops, who didn’t care; the school, who said he left. I drove to the school, ran around the whole thing looking for him, calling him the entire time. I went to the park he liked to sit at next. I found him there. He had a gun in his mouth and tears running down his face. I had to talk my _own brother_ out of killing himself right in front of me. I promised him I would fix everything. Finally, he put down the gun, and I took it. We went home, and once he was asleep, I took that gun, and I went to all the bullies’ houses, and I shot them all in the head. I murdered five kids for my little brother. What wouldn’t I do for someone in the same situation as he was?” Gerard lets the question hang in the air, as I stare mutely at him.  


Nothing breaks our gazes, until someone starts banging on the door to the basement. We both startle, though I do more than he does, and turn towards the sound. “Time to pay the rent, Gee!” the apparent landlady calls.  


“Alright!” Gee—I like this nickname, _Gee_ —hollers back. “I’ll give it to you in the fucking morning!” I raise my eyebrows at the casually used swear word.  


“Right now, Gee!” she bellows back. “Or I call the cops!”  


I stare at Gerard with wide eyes, but he just smiles at me. _You know, just making my heart stop and all_.  


“Fuckin’ hell, alright already!” he yells, unconcerned. “I’ll get it to you in a minute!”  


“You better!” she retorts. “I’m getting sick of your nonsense!” Footsteps retreat up the stairs.  


I furrow my eyebrows at Gerard. “Don’t worry,” he says calmly. “She likes me.”  


I give him a dubious look. “No, really,” he insists. “We always talk like that. She loves it.”  


I nod, completely unconvinced.  


He checks his watch. “Okay, it’s almost noon, so in a minute, I’m gonna call your mom again.”  


“Why?” I ask, genuinely perplexed.  


“Because,” he explains slowly, “she brought cops.”  


“How do you know she brought cops?” I wonder, nervously.  


“Because she said what the cops would have told her to say,” Gerard answers, staring his watch down as if it will get intimidated and go faster.  


“She sounded pretty genuine to me,” I mutter.  


“No, seriously,” Gerard says, handing me the burner cell so I can punch the number, “watch cop shows. It’s exactly what they say.”  


It starts ringing, and I hand it back to Gerard, biting my lip again.  


“Don’t do that,” he tells me, brushing his fingers over my lip briefly. I obey, because defying that touch would be physically impossible.  


The phone gets to three rings before my mother picks up, during which time Gerard explains, “She’ll have dropped off the money and be in an unmarked police van, so they’ll have to wire the call through to the van. This is one way you can tell cops are involved.”  


I nod, and my mom is on, saying, “The money’s there. Now, give me my son.” Her voice is surprisingly strong and fierce. A flash of warmth goes through me, but then I feel cold.  


_What’s her name?_ Gerard mouths at me during his dramatic pause.  


_Linda_ , I mouth back.  


“Linda,” he growls, “I thought I told you no cops?”  


She hesitates for a moment. “I didn’t tell the cops,” she replies, putting on her ‘I’m surprised you would think that’ voice that she uses when she’s lying.  


“I’m not an idiot, Linda,” Gerard says.  


“You’re an idiot to mess with my son!” she explodes, before composing herself. “I don’t care about the money, okay? I only care about my Frank. Please. I did what you said, now let him come back to me!” she wails.  


Gerard lets her sob for a long moment before speaking. “It’s too late. You could’ve saved him, but you brought cops. Say goodbye to your son.” He puts the phone to my ear as my mouth drops open. _What is he doing?_  


“Frankie!?” my mom screeches and I cringe away from the noise. “Oh my god, Frankie, I love you so much! It’s gonna be okay! I’ll get you out of there!” Her words turn to indiscernible blubberings.  


I swallow hard. “Mom, don’t worry. I’m okay. I–I love you too.” My voice isn’t working right.  


Gerard is just pulling the phone away from my ear when someone starts banging on the door. “Gerard Arthur Way!” the landlady booms, and Gerard doesn’t shut the phone before my mother gasps.


	11. Blood

“Did you hear—?” my mom starts to ask someone, but then Gerard closes the phone. His face is bone white as he stares at me, fear written plain in his eyes. I wear a similar expression.  


_What did I just get him into?_ I think, guilty and terrified.  


_Probably nothing he hasn’t been in before,_ my brain assures me, but sounds worried as well.  


“Where’s my rent?!” the landlady shouts.  


“We have to go,” Gerard tells me urgently. “Now!”  


I scramble up off the bed where I was seated, and grab a chair to put under the window. Gerard is throwing things out of his drawers, searching frantically for something.  


“I want my money, Gerard!” the landlady persists.  


“The photo!” he hisses. “Where is it?”  


I pat my pockets uncertainly, before I catch sight of it on the bed. Snatching it up, I hand it to him, and he stuffs it in a backpack. Then he pushes the dresser about a foot to the side, and pries open a previously hidden floorboard. “What’s in there?” I wonder.  


“Emergency stash,” he tells me shortly, scooping passports and bundles of cash into his bag. “Time to go,” he says, zipping it up.  


“Gerard!!” the landlady is still shouting.  


I stand on the chair and scrape open the window. “Will you fit?” I ask, whilst hoisting myself up onto the sill.  


“I have to,” he mutters from behind me.  


As I try to wriggle out, I can hear the faint sound of sirens. I can tell that Gerard is biting his tongue not to remind me to hurry, because we both know we have to.  


Like last time, my jeans get snagged at my hips, and as much as I claw the dirt in front of me, I can’t budge. “I’m stuck,” I hiss to Gerard. His hands grab my thighs as he pushes me through. My jeans rip down one side about three inches, but I don’t have time to swoon over his touch or be embarrassed over my falling-down pants. I turn back to the window and he gives me the backpack, which I toss to the side. He stands on the chair and pulls himself up, so that his stomach is on the sill. I help drag him forward, but he also gets caught at the hips. The sirens are getting closer.  


Suddenly, Gerard starts laughing. I stop pulling, and just stare at him. “Sorry,” he laughs, “It’s just, this situation is really funny.”  


_Just when I was starting to think he wasn’t crazy_ , I mutter to my brain.  


_For the record_ , my brain comments, _I never thought he wasn’t._  


_Sure_ , I say sarcastically. “Well, why don’t you laugh about it later,” I suggest, “because if we don’t hurry, it’s not gonna be so funny much longer.”  


Gerard nods seriously, pushing at the the edges of the window again, before collapsing into a second fit of giggles.  


“What _now_?” I ask incredulously.  


He wipes tears from his eyes with dirty fingers. “Sorry, just…wouldn’t it be funny if the police found me like this, stuck in a window!?”  


“Okay, that’s it,” I tell him, and wrap my arms around his warm torso, tugging with all my might. He tries to calm his hysterics, but to no avail. I feel like rolling my eyes at this ridiculousness, but I’m too uptight as the sirens get louder and louder by the second. I stop pulling, and go to the window. “Okay, what’s caught?” I ask no one in particular, and my hands shake as I try to run them along the edges, which means touching his hips.  


“I’m fat!” Gerard giggles, and I struggle to keep my frown in place. _This is serious_ , my brain reminds me. _You can laugh later. But right now we have to get out of here._  


_I know_ , I reply briefly, and suddenly, I feel a button snagged on the sill. “I think this is it,” I tell the still laughing Gerard. “I just need to…get it….” I refuse to get distracted about where my hands are as I struggle to pop the button over the window ledge. It won’t come free. The sirens must be a block away. “Gerard, I’m taking off your pants!” I yell at him, and his laughter pauses long enough for him to say, “What?” then resumes with even more gusto.  


_I’m not thinking about anything but getting us out of here_ , I tell my brain as my fingers fumble to unbutton his jeans.  


_No, not at all_ , my brain agrees. _Taking off his pants is necessary_.  


_It is_ , I insist, now working on the zipper with nervous fingers. _I am totally focussed on escape._  


_Yes, you are_ , my brain says. _You’re not at all focussed on the feel of his hips or how he will look without pants_.  


_Your commentary is highly valued_ , I return stiffly.  


_At your service_ , my brain vows.  


I start pulling Gerard again, and this time, I succeed, slipping him out of the window and his pants. I catch the jeans before they fall inside, and toss them at Gerard, who is still on the ground. “Get up,” I order. “Hurry!”  


Gerard groans painfully, and manages to roll off his stomach and onto his side. His eyes are squeezed shut, and his hands rest limply on a dark stain on his side. _Is that…?_ I ask my brain.  


_Blood? Yes, I believe so_ , my brain confirms, and I drop to my knees beside him.  


“What happened?” I panic. “What’s wrong?”  


That’s when I see the shard of broken glass embedded in his side.


	12. Run

_How did that happen?_ I ask my brain frantically.  


_It must’ve been on the ground, and you dragged him over it_ , my brain deduces.  


_You’re saying_ I _did this?_ I growl, but the horror and guilt start filling me.  


_Well, obviously not on purpose, but…yeah, it looks like it_ , my brain tells me unsympathetically.  


I move his hands away to see the damage. I can’t tell how deep the shard is, but it would have been dirty out here. _What if it gets infected? What if he looses too much blood? What if…?_ I can’t say the last one, but my brain comes to the rescue. _What if he dies?_ it proffers helpfully. _No, he won’t die,_ I declare fiercely. _I won’t let him._  


I decide the first thing to do is put his pants on. There is nothing alluring about touching him this time. All I feel is dread. The sirens wail on the other side of the building, where no doubt armed cops are getting out. _What do I do? If I try to escape with him, he might die. If I turn him in, the cops will get him fixed up…but he’ll also be in jail._  


_Try to ask him_ , my brain supplies.  


I touch his face softly. “Gerard?” I ask tentatively. No reply.  


_Slap him_ , my brain directs.  


_I’m not gonna slap him!_ I cry. _He’s injured!_  


_It’s bad if he goes to sleep,_ my brain insists. _He might never wake up._  


At this piece of information, I slap him across the face hard. He groans a little, eyelids fluttering. “Gerard!” I hiss urgently, petting the spot where I hit him.  


“Nn-mm,” he grumbles.  


“Gerard, the cops are here,” I whisper. “But you’re hurt bad. What do I do?”  


He coughs a little. “’S fine,” he mumbles, lifting his hand a bit as if to wave off my concern.  


_He’s out of it._ “No, it’s not fine,” I say slowly. “You have a shard of glass in your side, and the cops are about to break into your apartment and find us.”  


He shakes his head. “There’s sirens,” he says, and I blink at him.  


“Yes,” I agree.  


“There wouldn’t be sirens,” he explains.  


“What?”  


“I’m a murdering kidnapper, Frank,” he expounds. “If they were here for me, they wouldn’t have sirens or lights. They’d want to sneak up on me, so I couldn’t get away.”  


“But they already know your name,” I say, “and they know you know they know it. How would stealth help?”  


“I’m sorry,” he mutters, “you lost me with all the ‘knows’.”  


I roll my eyes. “What should I do?” I ask.  


“Find some painkillers,” he groans.  


I don’t move. “How? Where?”  


He grumbles something unintelligible.  


“What?”  


“I said,” he repeats slowly, “Go left.”  


“Uh, okay,” I say, slipping the backpack on and trying to help up Gerard. He hisses in pain. “Sorry,” I apologize, wincing every time he moans.  


“Take this out,” he orders, leaning against the building.  


“I don’t know if that’s a good—” I start.  


“Take it out!” he hisses. “I can’t walk with it in my side!”  


“Okay,” I say, swallowing. “Try not to yell.” I gently wrap my hand around the bloody piece of glass that’s still visible. Gerard sucks in a breath, but wheezes it out again when the breath moves the glass. “On three,” I tell him. “One!” I yank out the glass, and Gerard slides down the wall, whimpering through his clenched jaw.  


The shard is short, half the length of my pinky, and I sigh in relief. It’s not harmless, but it’s not as bad as I’d feared. I kneel by Gerard. “Can you walk?” I ask him softly. He nods, but doesn’t open his eyes.  


The sirens stop all of a sudden, and I can hear the landlady screaming, “I don’t know what you’re talking about! I’ve never seen that before in my life! I’m not a drug dealer!” I peak around the corner of the building to see a stout, middle-aged woman being escorted to a police car in handcuffs.  


Returning to Gerard, I comment, “Well, that’s interesting.”  


“Not really,” he replies in a strangled voice.  


I raise my eyebrows. “You knew?” I ask.  


“Oh yeah,” he says casually. “I called it in.”  


“What?!” I explode. “Why? When?”  


“This morning, before you woke up,” he tells me. “What’s the problem?”  


“You called cops to your apartment?”  


“They didn’t come for me,” he insists.  


“But…why?” I cry, perplexed. _Crazy people don’t always make sense_ , my brain placates me.  


“She was a drug dealer,” Gerard states simply. “She was doing something illegal.”  


“Yeah, and you’re a goddamn murderer!” I retort. “Don’t you think you should get some perspective?”  


“No, see,” Gerard chuckles, “I left my _name_.”  


“You _what_?” I squeak in disbelief.  


“Yeah, so now that they know my name, they’ll see that I made this call,” he responds proudly.  


Words can’t express my utter confusion. I stare blankly at him.  


He sighs, like I’m an idiot. “ _So_ , I’m giving them a clue they won’t know what to do with,” he says. “Don’t you just love messing with cops?”  


“Your brother’s a cop,” I remind him.  


“Yeah!” he agrees, grinning like a madman. “I _love_ messing with him!”  


_I_ think _his logic is flawed, but I’m not quite sure_ , I tell my brain.  


_Pretty sure it’s flawed_ , my brain replies, sounding bored.  


“You’re insane,” I inform him.  


“Thank you,” he replies, crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue out.  


_Oh my god_. I can’t help laughing.  


“Okay,” he says, motioning me over, “I put sunglasses in the bag.”  


“It’s not sunny,” I state the obvious.  


He rolls his eyes, pulling out two pairs of sunglasses. “It’s so no one recognizes us, stupid.” He puts one pair on my face, his fingers brushing my cheeks, before putting his own pair on.  


_Is it weird that my heart swelled when he called me stupid?_  


_Yes_ , my brain replies.  


_Shut up._


	13. Doctor

“Okay, why do your pants keep falling down?” Gerard wonders as my torn jeans slide down from walking. “That’s like the fifth time.”  


“I ripped them on the window,” I explain, trying futilely to pull them up again with one hand as I help Gerard along with the other.  


“Right,” Gerard replies dryly.  


I look sideways at him curiously. “No, really, that’s what happened. Why would I lie about—”  


“No,” Gerard insists, leaning into me enough that I stumble, “ _turn_ right.”  


“Oh,” I say, obeying. We’re taking back streets only, because two guys in sunglasses limping around—one of whom’s pants are constantly falling off—isn’t very discreet. Gerard apparently knows a doctor that owes him a debt, but assuming Gerard’s face is already on TV as a Wanted criminal, and I’m his supposed kidnapped victim, I’m worried the debt will be forgotten in the face of a prison charge for aiding and abetting. But Gerard seems to trust him not to turn us in, and, oddly, I trust Gerard, so to the doctor it is.  


At the end of the alley, I have to pinch Gerard’s arm because he’s apparently fallen asleep while walking.  


_Oh, sure_ , my brain snarks, _you_ had _to pinch him. That wasn’t some excuse to touch him or anything._  


_I already have my arm around his waist_ , I point out. _It’s not like I pinched his ass_. Immediately after this thought, my cheeks redden.  


_Next time_ , my brain promises, and I silently curse it before returning my attention to a grumbling Gerard.  


“Left?” I ask, trying to understand his mumblings.  


“Right,” he corrects, and I take us where directed. “No!” Gerard says, stopping us in our tracks. “Left.”  


“Why did you say right, then?” I mutter, turning us around to limp in the other direction.  


“I meant,” he replies, barely coherent, “that left was the right way to go.”  


“Very helpful when you’re giving directions,” I comment, but Gerard’s so out of it, he doesn’t notice.  


“Are you passing out because you’re hurt,” I wonder, “or because you were running around all night?”  


Gerard yawns, and mumbles, “Running around all night.”  


_Brilliant._ I roll my eyes.  


The alley leads to a mostly empty street, but the few people in it worry me. _Will they recognize us?_ “Gerard,” I say to rouse him, stopping in the shade of the narrow alley.  


“Wha’?” he groans, and without warning shifts so that his head lolls on my shoulder. “‘M tired.”  


It takes me a moment to reactivate my vocal chords. “Um, we almost there?” I ask in an unnaturally high voice.  


Gerard’s eyes remain closed as he waves his hand in no certain direction. “It’s right over there.”  


“That’s great,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Could you be a bit more specific?” But my sarcasm is lost as he tries to rest comfortably on my shoulder.  


“What street are we on?” he mumbles into my shirt, his breath warming the skin beneath.  


I clear my throat a few times, but it doesn’t do much for my ability to speak like a normal human being.  


_Okay_ , my brain intercedes, _this won’t get you anywhere._  


_But_ , I protest breathlessly, _he's so…adorable._ On cue, Gerard hides his face in my shirt.  


_So are kittens_ , my brain snaps, _but I doubt you’d get all flustered with one of them cuddling on your shoulder._  


_We can spare a minute_ , I insist, fingers aching to pet his red-dyed hair. _A minute won’t hurt anyone._  


_Actually_ , my brain points out, _seeing as he’s injured, it could._  


_Oh, right_ , I sigh. _Forgot that little detail._ I gently put my hands on his upper arms and turn him to face me so that his head slides off my shoulder. He jerks awake as his head begins to fall, and looks up in confusion.  


“I was sleeping,” he informs me grumpily.  


I resist the surprisingly strong urge to rub his arms, laugh, and peck him on his cute nose. In my perfect world, he would smile back lazily, and wrap his arms around my neck for another kiss, and—  


_But this is_ not _your perfect world,_ my brain interrupts my fantasizing. _So snap out of it._  


I cough a little, which apparently is my defense mechanism against embarrassment. “No street signs that I can see,” I tell Gerard, who is starting to slump as I hold him up by his arms.  


_Nice biceps_ , my brain distracts me.  


_You are so fickle_ , I chide it.  


_You are_ , it agrees. I roll my eyes inwardly, then to Gerard I say, “Do you know where to go?”  


He lifts his eyes to the street behind me. “Yeah, he’s on this street. His shop’s called DIE.”  


I raise my eyebrows. “This guy’s a _doctor_?” I question dubiously.  


“Well,” Gerard amends with a yawn, “a dentist.”  


“You’re gonna have a _dentist_ stitch you up?” I exclaim incredulously. “One whose office is labelled _DIE_?”  


“It was DIE last time I saw it,” he mutters, eyelids drooping.  


_This is insane_ , I tell my brain, because Gerard doesn’t look up to conversation.  


_Which is to be expected_ , my brain retorts, _of an insane person._  


_A dentist_ , I enforce. _With an office entitled DIE_.  


_It’s better than any of your ideas_ , my brain points out.  


_I didn’t_ have _any ideas_ , I deny.  


_Exactly_.  


I shake my head and start half-carrying Gerard into the street. _Point taken_.


	14. Bigots

Just as I’m about to give up looking for a Dentist’s, or a sign that reads DIE, I spot a dinky restaurant with the neon sign DINER lit up, except that the N and R are out.  


_You have_ got _to be kidding me_ , I think unhappily.  


_What do you suppose the next shocker will be?_ my brain muses. _The dentist has bad teeth?_  


_Wouldn’t surprise me_ , I reply.  


“The diner?” I ask Gerard casually.  


“The _DIE_ , yes,” he answers as I steer us in that direction without verbalized complaint. Mentally, though, I allow my anxiety to run amok. _If this shady dentist has any knowledge of the Belleville triple murder and kidnapping—so basically any access to_ news _—it’s safe to assume he will turn us in the minute our backs are turned._  


_A fair assumption_ , my brain compliments me.  


_Thank you_ , I reply, surprised my brain agrees for once without argument or use of sarcasm.  


_Which is why you’re entering the restaurant right now_ , my brain adds, and I frown.  


_Well,_ I _don’t have a better idea_ , I defend, tapping the bell on the counter.  


_Of course you don’t, genius_ , my brain scorns, _so stop whining about everything, and have faith in your favorite psychopath._  


I’m about to snap back at my brain, but just then a beer-bellied man shuffles out from the kitchen. “What can I do for you?” he asks, wiping greasy fingers on his shirt.  


_Gross_ , my brain says.  


_Quiet_ , I command, though I don’t disagree. It’s dark, so I take my sunglasses off. I do the same for Gerard, though his eyes are closed. “Um, you the dentist?” I inquire apprehensively.  


He laughs. “Not anymore. It’s been years since I yanked a tooth! Can you believe people paid to have me poke and prod their mouth with sharp metal sticks? Fun job.”  


_I suppose it’s not unreasonable that sadists and psychopaths run in the same circles_ , I tell my brain.  


_What were you expecting?_ my brain jumps in. _A top-notch surgeon? At least this guy doesn’t have a reputation to ruin by helping us._  


_True_ , I grudgingly admit. “Say, do you watch the news often, or read the paper?” I wonder, trying to act nonchalant.  


“Has World War III broken out?” he inquires seriously.  


“N-no,” I stutter in confusion.  


“Have aliens invaded Earth?”  


“Not that I know of,” I answer thoughtfully.  


“My ex-wife’s back from the dead?”  


“No, sorry.” I wince sympathetically.  


“Can queers get married?”  


This question blindsides me. I fumble over words for a minute before anything coherent comes out. “Well, they _should_ be able to,” I splutter vehemently. “I mean, yeah, in some states they can, but there’s so much discrimination against the gay community. It shouldn’t even be an issue! Marriage is not about being gay or being straight or bi or whatever, it’s about love and commitment and trust—”  


“I don’t pay attention to the news,” he interrupts me warily, eyeing my arm around Gerard’s waist. “It’s too depressing.”  


“What about that was _depressing_?” I growl at him. “The fact that no one’s invading America, or the fact that gays are getting rights?”  


“Last one mostly,” he answers casually, either not noticing or not acknowledging my ire.  


I’m about to initiate a shouting match with this disgusting bigot, when Gerard seems to regain consciousness. “Hey, Ronnie!” he crows, smiling wanly at the offensive man.  


_They’re_ friends _?_ I fume.  


“Who the hell are you?” Ronnie demands, and I’m both glad and disappointed.  


But Gerard just grins big, showing all his teeth.  


Ronnie leans closer to see. “Baby teeth!” he suddenly exclaims, and I have to agree Gerard’s teeth are pretty small. “Mikey, you crazy bastard!”  


_Mikey?_ I think in confusion. _But that’s his brother.... Damn it, he tricked me! His_ brother’s _name is Gerard!_  


“You dirty cop!” Ronnie says in a congratulatory tone, walking out from behind the counter.  


This baffles me. _Did he completely lie, switching identities with his brother just to play a joke on me? But dirty cop? Dirty? Yes._ Cop _? That doesn’t fit._  


“Ronnie,” Gerard-Mikey greets, with considerably less gusto than Ronnie is affording him.  


“Come to collect?” Ronnie guesses, holding out a hand for shaking.  


Gerard-Mikey holds up his hands as he leans into me more heavily. Ronnie takes in the blood on them and looks at Gerard-Mikey’s side. “You’re not wanted by the police or anything, are you?” he checks.  


“Swear to god, Mikey Way has never been wanted by the police.” He grins. “Except to do traffic patrol.”  


Ronnie laughs and turns to go behind the counter, gesturing for us to follow. While he’s not looking, Mikey-Gerard looks at me and winks, his grin still in place, and mouths, _‘He guessed wrong.’_  


I bite back my laughter, remembering that the landlady had called him Gerard as well, _so unless he plays the guessing game with_ everyone _he meets_ …. I smirk in amusement as I help Gerard follow Ronnie into a room behind the kitchen.


	15. Sadistic

“Lay down,” the ex-dentist instructs, pointing at a table. Gerard hisses as he sits, and scoots until he’s flat on his back. I try to help by removing my hoodie and putting it under his head as a pillow. He nods his appreciation and closes his eyes.  


“What happened, then?” Ronnie queries, donning a pair of rubber gloves, and picking some objects out of a container.  


“Uh, he rolled over a glass shard on accident—” I begin.  


“On _purpose_ ,” Gerard cuts in, grinning with his eyes still shut.  


“You’re crazy,” Ronnie chuckles, then to me, “he’s a lunatic.”  


I nod in total agreement before continuing, “It was in the dirt, so I’m worried it could get infected….” I trail off, realizing what I just said.  


Gerard slits his eyes open enough to find my hand with his, then closes them again. I’m so surprised, I can’t backpedal like I was planning. “Isn’t my boyfriend sweet, Ronnie?” he asks.  


I cough, completely unprepared for the ambush, and Ronnie stops what he’s doing to narrow his eyes slightly at Gerard, who wiggles the fingers of his free hand. “You’re _radiating_ homophobia, Ronnie, I can feel it. And are those homicidal thoughts I sense?”  


Ronnie grunts noncommittally, and returns to selecting a needle and thread. _His hand is in mine_ , I marvel speechlessly. _Did he just call me his boyfriend? His hand. Is in. Mine._  


Suddenly, heartbreakingly, Gerard releases my hand and guffaws, causing the ex-dentist to turn around as Gerard’s laughter morphs into groaning. He grins through the pain and says, “Only joking, Ronnie. This is my brother, Gerard.”  


Ronnie visibly relaxes. “You had me going there for a moment,” he chortles.  


I stand motionless at Gerard’s side, feeling inexplicably humiliated, like I was just the butt of their joke. _Or is this just what false hope feels like when you discover its duplicity?_  


“ _Your_ job,” Ronnie tells me cheerfully, coming over, “is to hold this tricky bastard down if he starts squirming.”  


I reanimate, frowning, but position myself by Gerard’s shoulders. Ronnie cuts away the stained shirt, and peels it off slowly. Gerard whimpers as the fibers catch on his wound.  


“Do you need a stick to bite, or can’t you handle a little pain?” Ronnie questions Gerard, who shakes his head. “Take that as a no to the stick,” the ex-dentist mutters. He holds a fold of gauze over a bottle labelled “Hydrogen Peroxide” and tips it a few times before dabbing the soaked cloth on Gerard’s wound.  


Gerard draws in a sharp breath, and I automatically find his hand with mine. He squeezes it hard and arches his neck back with long groan when Ronnie splashes the liquid directly on the cut. Foam and pus bubble forth, mixing with his blood. I feel queazy looking at it.  


“That should clean out any infection that might’ve gotten in there. Now, the best part!” Ronnie wields the needle and thread a little too gleefully for my comfort.  


I cringe as he gestures for me to hold Gerard’s shoulders, but don’t disobey. I keep my hand threaded with Gerard’s as I rest my hands on his chest. He tenses subtly, eyes still closed. I watch his face rather than the procedure, squeezing his hand comfortingly every time he winces. At one point, Gerard seems to involuntarily curl inwards with a cry, and I grimace as I dutifully force him down again.  


I glare at Ronnie, who says with the same cheer, “Whoops! A little too deep.” The needle is being pulled through a hole an inch from the actual cut.  


“Watch it,” I growl, doing my best to intimidate. Unfortunately, I rate somewhere between an angry penguin and a frazzled old professor on the intimidation scale.  


Ronnie nods happily as I return to surveying Gerard’s expression. _I hate seeing him in pain._  


_Not that your feelings tend to follow any sort of logic_ , my brain says disparagingly, _but you did only just meet him yesterday._  


_Not now_ , I dismiss, and my brain silences immediately.  


Sweat collects on Gerard’s pale forehead, causing strands of his red hair to stick to his cheeks. After a slight hesitation, I brush them from his face gently. He doesn’t seem to notice.  


_Probably a good thing_ , my brain, who can never stay quiet for long, remarks.  


_Yeah_ , I sigh, _you’re probably right._  


With a final wince from Gerard, Ronnie announces, “Done. Now just bandaging.” He gets out a large square bandaid that covers the wound completely. Then he hands me a stack of identical bandages. “You’ll want to change it at least once a day, and any time it bleeds or gets dirty. I’ll grab a shirt for him, and I want you gone in less than thirty minutes.” Ronnie departs, presumably in search of that shirt.  


Gerard’s hand squeezes mine weakly, and I suddenly realize we’re still holding hands. I squeeze back and gently disentangle my fingers from his.  


“Frank?” Gerard asks in a hoarse voice.  


“Yeah?” I reply nervously. _No need to be nervous_ , my brain reminds me. It’s strange to talk to someone with their eyes closed; I don’t know where to look.  


“You know I’m a murderer, right?” he ventures. “You remember that?”  


I don’t know if I should laugh or be quiet, so I simply answer, “Yes, I remember.”  


“Good,” he says, and I raise my eyebrows. “I mean, good you don’t have short-term memory.”  


Still not sure if this is some weird psychopath humor or not, I don’t respond.  


“So if you know I’m a murderer,” he goes on after a pause, “why are you treating me like I’m a good person?”  


I’m startled by this. “What do you mean?” I ask stupidly.  


“The way I figure it,” Gerard theorizes, “you’re either a really nice person, or a really insane person. Maybe both.”  


“Um,” I say, “leaning towards one or the other?”  


Gerard opens his eyes just enough to squint up at me. “Crazy,” he decides with certainty. “Definitely crazy.”  


Laughter bubbles up inside me without warning, and Gerard watches my fit of giggles with an expression that says I’m just proving his point. “I’ve come to the same conclusion about _you_ ,” I manage after the laughing runs its course.  


Gerard grins maniacally at my statement, and suggests, “Let’s be crazy together!”  


I snort. “That sounds like a _great_ idea.”


	16. Incognito

Ronnie returns briefly then with the smallest shirt he owns, which still hangs almost to Gerard’s knees when he pulls it on. He can’t lift his arms above his head, so I help him dress. After I stuff the spare bandages into the backpack, we re-don our sunglasses and head to the front, where Ronnie is taking an order from a customer that can’t seem to stop tapping his fingers on the counter. As we leave, Ronnie nods farewell and says to me, “Take care of your brother.”  


“Oh,” Gerard replies before I have the chance, grabbing my hand, “he’s not my brother.”  


Ronnie’s face freezes as he turns away without further comment. Gerard lets my sweaty hand go once we’re out of sight, but I put it back around his waist as he limps along. _I don’t think he really needs your assistance anymore_ , my brain tells me rather coldly.  


_He’s still limping_ , I defend meekly. _I’m just being nice._  


_No, you’re not_ , my brain argues. _You just want to touch him_.  


_I don’t…_ not _want to touch him,_ I try, but my brain is sorely judging me, so I relent. “Are you good walking, or…?” I query Gerard, hoping he’ll say no.  


But of course, since I wanted it, it didn’t happen. “I’m fine.”  


_Damn fine_ , my brain compliments, and I again curse it for being so mercurial.  


“I hope I didn’t make you too uncomfortable in there,” Gerard suddenly gushes, catching me by surprise. I slow, so he doesn’t have to limp too quickly to catch up. “I just hate bigots.”  


I nod, inwardly relieved and giddy he said that. But I see my chance, and I have to ask, completely casual: “So…are you gay?”  


He glances at me. “Are _you_?”  


Without thinking, my mouth forms the word, “no.”  


He looks away as I mentally rage at myself. “Me neither.”  


_God, those two words are almost painful to hear._  


_Don’t be dramatic_ , my brain scorns.  


I reply in exasperation, _I’m trying to be real._  


“Where are we going?” I ask eventually, but my voice is void of curiosity or any other emotion.  


Gerard works his jaw before answering. “I know someone who can hide us for a while.”  


“Another debt?” I guess, grimacing.  


“Sort of,” he hedges cryptically.  


I don’t know what he means. “Will our reception at least be a bit more welcoming?” I wonder.  


“Um,” Gerard muses, chewing his bottom lip. “Guess we’ll see.”  


* * *

  


“Your _brother’s_ place?” I hiss incredulously from where we crouch in the bushes, across the street from an apartment block. The unmarked cop car is stationed thirty feet away from us, housing two watchful policemen. “What about this seemed like a good idea? Was it the high probability of getting caught? Or perhaps that your brother is a _cop_? I’d love to know,” I snark in a whisper.  


Gerard turns to me. “I have an idea,” he says.  


“Oh, _another_ one!” I reply, rolling my eyes. “Wonderful.”  


“You are really sarcastic,” he takes the time to inform me, before digging through the backpack. “Where is it?” he mutters to himself as he starts taking things out and tossing them on the ground carelessly, including the bundles of cash.  


I look around to indulge my paranoia, even though we are concealed in bushes at night, then begin to reload the emptied bag. 

Gerard slaps my hands away.  


“I haven’t found it yet,” he snaps.  


“You’ve taken everything out,” I reason. “If it’s not here, you must have forgotten it.”  


He purses his lips and lets me pack the bag. “Oh!” he breathes after a minute of contemplation, and unzips the outer pocket I assumed was unoccupied. He proudly produces a ziplock baggie of prosthetics and make-up. “Disguises!” he whispers excitedly.  


_Oh, this is a bad idea_ , my brain declares.  


_Emphatically agreed._ “Gerard, this isn’t—”  


“Trust me, Frank,” he implores, face solemn. “Trust me.”  


I swallow, taken off-guard. “I trust you,” I say shakily.  


Gerard wields an eyeliner pencil. “Don’t trust my crazy ideas, Frank,” he amends. “Just trust I won’t poke your eye.” He descends with the eyeliner, and I swat his hands away.  


“I definitely do _not_ trust you to put make-up on me!” I hiss vehemently.  


“Don’t worry about it,” he says, trying again.  


“This is a _terrible_ idea!” I tell him, snatching his wrists to dissuade the eyeliner from assailing my eye sockets. “We are _not_ doing this!”  


* * *

  


An hour later, Gerard is a bearded old man with a hat that he tucks his hair into to hide its shade. He wears a worn brown overcoat, and holds a cane. I, against my express wishes, am an equally aged _woman_ , sporting a white curly wig, and a more feminine coat. My face is slathered in layers upon layers of make-up that has morphed me into a wrinkled prune with skin spots. Gerard forced me to let him apply mascara and pink lipstick on me. This is probably the closest I could ever get to hating him.  


And, though I loathe to admit it, I’m wearing a dress. _And_ a necklace of pearls. Also, how does anyone walk in high heels? Gerard had me try a pair on, but decided it was a bad idea after the third time I fell over. He probably just made me wear them so he could laugh at my ridiculousness. Instead I wear sandals.  


Don’t ask where we got all these clothes. All I’m saying is there’s been a robbery not too far from here.


	17. Elderly

It was difficult to convince Gerard I didn’t need to shave my legs, but I wasn’t budging on this point, so Gerard relented, grumbling. “Okay,” he says now in a whisper. “Act like an old woman.”  


I glare at him.  


“Shouldn’t be too hard for you,” he can’t resist adding.  


I smack him with my purse, and he bites back a smirk as he hobbles around the corner in view of the cops. As I follow Gerard’s lead, I notice one cop nudge the other in the corner of my eye. That one lifts binoculars, and I mask my consternation by shuffling up next to Gerard.  


“They’re watching us,” I whisper to him, and to my horror, he swings his head around to stare right at the cops. He squints, then says to me in a voice meant to sound like an old man, “I’m going to go see what they want.”  


I clutch his arm and glance at the cops. “No, don’t do that!”  


He turns to face me and touches my arm, electrifying even though he currently looks so old. “Stay right here, Helena. I’ll sort this out.”  


“Don’t you—” I warn, but he’s already limping across the street. The cops pretend to not see him, drinking their coffee and hastily starting a conversation.  


“Hey!” Gerard shouts, banging his cane against the drivers’ side door. I think I suffer a heart attack at this moment.  


The cops exchange weary looks before the driver rolls down his window. “Yes?” the undercover policeman asks innocently.  


“What kind of creeps are you?” Gerard yells in his strained elderly voice. “My wife and I come to see our grandson for dinner and then some weirdos start spying on us?! I’ll call the cops on you! I will!” He starts to turn around as if to follow up on his threat.  


“Excuse me, sir,” the driver calls Gerard back.  


From across the street where I stand gripping my purse in worry, I can’t hear what the officers are saying to Gerard, but I can clearly hear his loud response.  


“Let me see that,” he demands, leaning closer to the cops. I suck in a breath, sure they’ll see the make-up or a hair will come loose from under his hat. “Well in _my_ day, _police_ were in _police_ cars, not lurking and spying on random people! You scared my wife! See, over there,” he says, pointing. “That’s my wife. You owe her an apology!”  


I lift my head a little in acknowledgement, but don’t speak.  


The cops exchange another tired glance before the driver leans out the window to call out, “Sorry, ma’am.”  


I nod cautiously as Gerard hobbles back to my side. The whole time, he’s huffing and muttering unintelligible things.  


“Let’s go inside already,” I beg with a last wary glance at the officers. We shuffle along to the door and look at the name placards with intercoms next to them. I spot the one labelled Mikey Way, but Gerard presses the one just above it. Nothing. He pushes it again. Just before he tries a third time, a woman’s voice says, “Hello? Who is this?”  


“Oh, hello,” Gerard replies in his fake voice. “We’re very sorry to bother you, but my wife and I came to visit our grandson, and he doesn’t seem to be answering. Would it be too much trouble for you to buzz us in?”  


A pause. “Who’s your grandson?”  


“Michael Way,” I answer for him, pitching my voice high.  


Gerard fights to hold his laughter in with a twitching mouth.  


“Okay, I’ll see if Michael’s home.”  


“Oh please hurry, dear,” Gerard recovers enough to insist. “It’s very chilly out here and my wife is prone to catching colds.”  


“Of course,” the voice replies. “I’ll just be a minute.”  


“What are you doing?” I ask Gerard pleasantly.  


“Avoiding suspicion,” he replies, then glances at the officers. “They say they’re _cops_!” he goes on, loud enough for them to hear. I look over to see the driver throw his hands up and turn to his partner. “But they don’t look like cops to _me_!”  


“I think that’s quite enough…George,” I say in a hoarse, but feminine voice.  


Gerard grumbles senselessly at a quieter volume, until a male voice comes on the intercom. “Hello?”  


“Michael, is that you?” Gerard checks, still in character.  


The voice whispers back, “Gee, I swear, if that’s you—”  


“Michael, let your grandmother and me in,” Gerard interrupts. “There are two men in a car with binoculars. They claim to be _cops_.”  


The buzzer sounds and Gerard pulls the door open feebly, holding it for me as I shuffle past him to the elevator and press ‘up.’  


“You idiot,” I tell him with a smile as we wait. “You made an impression. That’s not lying low.”  


“Correction,” he says, patting my arm. “I made an impression _incognito_. They won’t suspect me again.”  


_I don’t like his logic_ , I confide to my brain. _It makes sense._  


_And who should learn from that?_ it retorts.  


_No comment._  


The elevator doors ding, and open, and we enter. Gerard presses the ‘close door’ button, and the seventh floor. As soon as the doors slide shut on the lobby, I reach up to tear off the itchy wig, but Gerard catches my arm. “Not until we’re safe inside,” he orders in his normal voice. I slowly put my arm down and he lets go as quickly as he grabbed me.  


“It didn’t sound like he was very happy you’re here,” I mention casually.  


“Well,” Gerard says, just as nonchalant, “cop; criminal. Bound to be some tension.” He leans on the side of the elevator, and his coat falls open to reveal a dark stain on his shirt.  


“Gerard, you’re bleeding,” I breathe, at his side in an instant. I peel up the shirt, but Gerard pushes my hands away with a pained expression as the elevator reaches the seventh floor.  


“When we’re inside,” he repeats, buttoning one button of his coat to hide the bloodstain just as the doors open.  


I recognize the man standing in front of us, blocking our way, even though his hair is now bleach blonde, and he doesn’t wear glasses. “Michael, my favorite grandson!” Gerard greets him cheerily, then wryly, “Don’t tell your brother!”  


“Who’s that?” Mikey demands, glaring at me.


	18. Brothers

Gerard puts his arm around my shoulders and I pray the make-up hides my blush. “My, this is your grandmother, Helena,” he says. “And I thought _I_ was in danger of getting Alzheimer's!” Gerard and I hobble forward, forcing Mikey to step out of the way. He sighs, and goes ahead of us to his apartment, which he opens and lets us go into. Gerard slumps into me the moment the door clicks shut, and I lead him to the closest seat, which happens to be the couch. Behind me, Mikey is asking, “What’s wrong with him?”  


I decide to just show him, and unbutton Gerard’s oversized coat. Mikey gasps subtly when he sees the bloody patch, and then starts to help me remove the coat. When it’s off, he disappears to get a first aid kit as I peel the shirt away from Gerard’s stomach.  


“How do you feel?” I ask in concern.  


He winks at me quickly. “Much better than I want him to think.” At my puzzled stare, he expounds, “Pity points!” before Mikey returns.  


“What happened to him?” Mikey questions me as Gerard groans and closes his eyes. Even though he’s forcing calm, I can hear the strain in Mikey’s voice that shows his worry.  


“He got a shard of glass in his side,” I report, gently removing the soaked-through bandage.  


“How?” Mikey pushes me out of the way so he can tend to his brother’s injury, and I bite my lip in an attempt to distract myself from the bitter jealousy.  


“I assume you’ve been watching the news?” I ask.  


“Yes,” he says stiffly.  


“Well, we were trying to escape the cops by crawling out a window, and I guess it was on the ground.”  


Mikey sighs. “You idiot,” he mutters to his brother affectionately as he wipes the blood away with a towel. “Jesus!” Mikey swears when the blood clears enough for him to see Ronnie’s poor job at stitching. “Did _you_ do this?” he demands angrily.  


“No,” I protest. “Someone called Ronnie did it.”  


“ _Who_?” Mikey asks in confusion.  


“An ex-dentist that owed Gerard a favor,” I elucidate.  


“Jesus,” he reiterates, examining the damage. “What was he _doing_?”  


Gerard smiles though his eyes are squeezed shut. “Never let a sadist give you stitches.”  


“ _Jesus_ ,” Mikey says again, bowing his head over the first aid kit.  


Gerard winks at me and mouths _'pity points!'_ which morphs into an awkward licking of his lips as Mikey looks back up.  


“Are you hungry or something?” Mikey asks of Gerard in puzzlement.  


“No, my lips are dry,” Gerard fibs.  


_Oh, man, he can say “lips” again_ , my brain hopes.  


My _lips aren’t dry_ , I mutter without thinking. _Maybe…_.  


_Stop creeping_ , my brain scolds, and I snap out of it, blushing.  


“The bathroom’s right down the hall on the left. I’ll leave some clothes outside the door when I finish with Gee,” Mikey tells me.  


“Uh, you want me to _what_ exactly?” I ask in confusion.  


Mikey spares me a glance. “You’re an old woman,” is all he needs to say.  


“Oh! Right,” I reply, retreating at the clear dismissal, though I don’t want to leave Gerard.  


_He’s in good hands_ , I try to convince myself.  


_Yeah, but you want him in_ your _hands_ , my brain adds, immediately turning the conversation dirty.  


_Get out of the gutter!_ I order in embarrassment.  


_Yeah, you do that_ , my brain says annoyingly.  


I shake my head and bite my lip as I close myself in the bathroom. _I’m worried._  


_He’s faking_ , my brain kindly reminds me.  


_You don’t fake all that blood_ , I counter.  


_It’s not life-threatening_ , my brain tries to pacify me.  


_Yeah, but not life-threatening is not the same as harmless._  


_If you don’t remove this make-up now_ , my brain warns me, _you’re gonna get acne all over your face, and then he’ll never want to look at you again._  


Involuntarily, nonsensically, this worry prioritizes itself before his wound, and I hasten to rub and peel the prosthetics and foundation from my skin. After my face is my own again, the wig is the first to go. The bobby pins that secured it tear at my scalp, but I’m glad to be free. I strip off the sandals, necklace, and dress with an urgency to remove the feminine garments from my body, vowing to never dress as a woman again.  


It takes almost ten minutes to rid myself of all old lady traits. Reaching out the door blindly, my hand locates and grabs the pile of clothes Mikey left me, quickly donning them before rushing back out to Gerard.  


_You’re like a puppy_ , my brain grumbles. _That’s not a compliment._  


_How would that be a compliment?_ I counter.  


_If you’re an old dog_. The brain is fond of wit. I withhold a snort as I reach the living room. Mikey is in a comforter across from the couch a shirtless Gerard is on with a fresh bandage, and each brother holds a small glass of scotch. Only one detail matters: _shirtless_.  


Mikey takes a sip as he glances up to see me; recognition flashes in his eyes and he suddenly spews it out again. “Damn it, Gee,” he says, wiping his mouth. “Would you stop with the surprises?”  


“No way,” Gerard replies smugly. “This is _much_ more fun.”  


“So,” Mikey intones, looking between me and Gerard, “anyone care to tell me what the hell is going on?”  


“Frank?” Gerard offers, but I shake my head.  


“Honestly, I’m not sure _I_ really know what’s going on either,” I comment, but Gerard’s torso is quite distracting.  


Mikey smiles wryly, and Gerard leans forward animatedly. “Story-time!” he announces with glee.


	19. Speechless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for this chapter: intense self-hate and homophobic thoughts

Gerard didn’t actually say he killed the three men, but it was pretty clearly implied with “shooting practice.” I suppose he did this for Mikey’s benefit; his brother cringed any time Gerard mentioned his criminal activities.  


“What did that stupid dentist owe you for anyway?” Mikey wonders, and I look at Gerard expectantly, curious as well.  


“Oh,” Gerard grins, “I ki—uh, got his ex-wife to go away.”  


Mikey grimaces and for some reason, I feel surprised. _Because you thought he was such a misunderstood guy_ , my brain emphasizes.  


_I am merely surprised that he killed so_ many _people_ , I defend.  


_Don’t lie to yourself_ , my brain chides, _you’re just hoping he’s not a psychopath because he’s attractive._  


_Not…_ I reply, biting back a smile.  


_Because psychopaths don’t feel emotion, and then how could he ever care about you?_ My brain is being purposefully nasty now. The smile fades.  


_What’s your problem?_ I mumble, gnawing my lip.  


_Grow up_ , is all my brain snaps in reply. I struggle to keep the bewilderment and hurt off my face.  


“Don’t answer if it’s illegal,” Mikey sighs.  


Sometimes I wonder if Gerard’s face ever gets sore from sporting all those cheeky grins. “Don’t ask questions, then.” I almost want to laugh at his absurd criminal ways.  


_Oh, haha, ‘cause his “absurd criminal ways” have benefitted you so much_. My brain returns to sink its fangs in.  


I draw my eyebrows together. _Why are you being like this?_  


_If you’re so fucking in love with him, why don’t you just try to kiss him already?_  


I don’t know what to say.  


_Oh that’s right_ , my brain goes on, scornfully. _It’s because he’s a normal straight guy who will never return your feelings._  


I watch numbly as Mikey rolls his eyes. “What are you doing here anyway?” he demands.  


Gerard assumes a defensive demeanor. “What, you want me to leave?” he challenges.  


“Yes,” Mikey replies, exasperated. “I’m being watched; you’ll be arrested in no time if you stay.”  


Gerard shakes his head. “Even if they do, they don’t have any evidence.”  


“Your name was shouted on a ransom call!” Mikey exclaims.  


“Oh, I forgot about that,” Gerard mutters, leaning back in thought.  


“What did you _think_ you were running for then?” his brother inquires incredulously, but before Gerard can respond, he says, “Wait! Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”  


Their fraternal bickering almost cheers me up, but my brain comes back with a vengeance. _There is something wrong with you. Don’t you get that? It’s not normal to like guys. You’d have thought all the bullies at school would have knocked some fucking sense into you, faggot._  


I feel sick to my stomach. My eyes are watery.  


_Oh, great!_ my brain sneers. _Cry in front of them to completely besmirch your little remaining dignity. I’m sure the cop and the criminal will appreciate your show of weakness._  


Without an excuse for the Way brothers, I turn and run to the bathroom. I take the time to shut the door before vomiting into the toilet. I heave repeatedly, though not much comes out. When I finish, I slump against the wall in misery. That dress is still on the floor.  


_Oh, did you like being a woman? Bet that was nice, to be normal for a while._  


I curl into a ball and cry. I cry about everything and nothing. I cry for my sexuality, for my loneliness due to lack of friends, for every time someone hit or kicked me, for boys that will never return my interest, especially that boy with red hair. I let these thoughts become blurred and indiscernible, and then I cry just to cry. I could stay like that for hours, but there is a tentative knock on the door. “Frank?” a soft voice asks.  


_Here comes your crush_ , my brain says. _Life is short, and you’re a freak. You can’t get much lower in his eyes. Just kiss him before he abandons you._  


_Shut up_ , I tell it, swallowing.  


_Don’t tell me I’m hurting your feelings? The queer is upset?_  


_Shut up!_ I insist angrily.  


_What’s that, little gay boy? You can’t handle the truth?_  


“I said _shut up_!” I scream, grabbing my hair in my hands and pulling, because maybe the physical pain will lessen the pain in my heart. Suddenly, the door flies open, and someone is there by my side, holding my hands so they’ll release my hair, stroking my face with comforting murmurs. He hugs me to his chest, and I accept the hug as all my years of loneliness pour over me. Eventually, my sobs die down enough that I can hear what he’s saying.  


“It’s okay. I’m here. I got you. You can go home if you want that, I won’t stop you. Don’t cry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” His mouth is by my ear. My stomach knots up as our position dawns on me. His hands rub my back gently, his arms crush me to him.  


Is this agony or bliss? This longing for him, this yearning. I don’t want to move and break our embrace. I’m shaking slightly, though I can’t determine why. Gerard rests his chin on my head. “Tell me what you want,” he whispers. “What do you need?”  


_If only he knew._ “I don’t want to go home,” I mumble quietly. I didn’t mean to say it, but it’s the truth. I love my mom and dad, sure, but that wasn’t enough to stop me from trying to kill myself. This…crazy, eccentric murderer, on the other hand, is. Isn’t it strange to think I haven’t smiled this much in forever? Even as I’m sniffling, I know I was worse off before.  


“Then you don’t have to,” he replies, petting my hair. I don’t want this moment to end, I don’t want him to pull away. My stomach keeps flipping.  


“I…” This is harder to say than I thought. “I…lied before, when…when I said…that I wasn’t gay.”  


His hands freeze and I lament, _no, he’s going to pull away. If you’re lucky he’ll beat you up; if you’re lucky he’ll kill you. Just don’t let him look at you with pity and distaste and walk away._  


“Well, _I_ didn’t,” he says, emotionless, not moving away just yet. _It will happen though. They always pull away. Gerard just has more tact._ “I’m not gay,” he tells me, but he’s not moving and I don’t know how to pull away without falling into little pieces, even if the right thing, the respectful, polite thing to do is to pull back. His hands tighten on my arms. _Okay, so abuse. Shouldn’t expect sympathy from a criminal._ “I’m bi.”  


My heart is beating faster than…I don’t know. I can’t think of anything. I’m too surprised and hopeful and wary. Moving still isn’t an option, but Gerard is not so paralyzed.  


With agonizing slowness, he lifts a hand to my cheek, urging my head up. Our eyes lock. He has beautiful eyes. The hazel irises swirl within themselves, dancing erratically.  


“So, is he okay?” Mikey asks as he strides down the hall toward the bathroom. Gerard and I scramble apart, dropping our gazes to the floor.  


“Yeah, he’s better now,” Gerard says quickly before standing and brushing past his brother. “I’ll sleep on the couch,” he says as he goes.  


Mikey raises his eyebrows. “What was that about?” he asks me.  


“I said I didn’t want to go home,” I mumble, getting up.  


“Oh.” He doesn’t seem to know what to say. “Well, here’s a toothbrush, and toothpaste is right there. I’ll show you the guest room when you’re done.”  


I nod my thanks as he departs. _What the hell do I do now? Pretend nothing happened? Pretend something did? Saying he was bi wasn’t saying he was into me. And lifting my chin…he probably was just gonna give me a pep talk. Say how I’m worth more than bigots or something. But…_  


I don’t know what to think.


	20. Sinners

I can’t sleep. I toss and turn all night long, thinking about Gerard. _What did it mean? Did it mean_ anything _?_  


_Did_ what _mean anything?_ my brain grouches, but I ignore it.  


_Well, did it? Was he going to kiss me?_ That’s the one thought I can’t let go of, I can’t dismiss. _Was he going to kiss me? Or was he gonna tell me something?_  


Damn it, Mikey, your timing is impeccable.  


I _must_ be over-thinking this. There’s no way someone like Gerard would like someone like me. He’s a gorgeous, demented, somewhat-sweet murderer, and I’m a pathetic, plain, depressed, sort-of-homesick kid still in high school. At best, he was trying to relate to me, and that’s it. Trying to cheer me up.  


_And why would he want to, if he’s a psychopath?_ my brain quizzes.  


_Hey_ , I protest, _I didn’t list that._  


_No, but it’s probably true_ , my brain amends.  


_Probably!_ I exclaim, as if I just won the lottery. _So not necessarily!_  


_Do you really_ , my brain says doubtfully, _want to get your hopes up just to have them crushed? Isn’t it better to not expect anything? Aren’t you lonely enough without_ wanting _someone?_  


Sometimes I think my brain knows things I don’t. Like it isn’t wholly _me_ that I’m talking to; like some other entity has lodged itself in my head and commentates my life. Is it wisdom? Is it bluster? Is it my subconscious trying to remind me of something I already know? A defense mechanism against boredom and isolation?  


_I’m lonely either way_ , I tell it sullenly. _I might as well try to change that._  


_You think a solipsistic psychopath is in love with a myopic moron like you_ , my brain spells out seriously.  


_Um, what’s with the fancy words and alliteration?_ I stall. My brain doesn’t even bother to respond. Sighing, I correct, _I think the solipsistic psychopath was going to kiss me. ‘In love’ is a bit far-fetched._  


_Or you’re being an idiot and he likes you as much as you like him_ , it suggests, and I feel worn out by its constant capriciousness.  


I let out a long breath. _So, what do I do?_  


My brain gives me the mental equivalent of a shrug. _Go talk to him._  


_It’s_ —I look at the clock— _two in the morning!_  


_Less chance of Mikey interrupting again_ , my brain reasons thoughtfully.  


_Interrupting what?_ I mutter, but throw the blankets off. I can’t sleep anyway. Tiptoeing to the door, I try to navigate in the dark. I stub my toe, but not badly. The door creaks slightly as I open it, but no one seems to be stirring. Biting my lip, I make my way down the hall to the living room. Gerard sleeps on the couch. _I feel like a creep._  


_You just came to talk to him_ , my brain denies.  


_At two in the morning_ , I add, _when he’s asleep_.  


_Is he?_ my brain replies slyly, and I frown, slinking forward. Gerard’s breaths are even and slow. _I’m pretty sure he’s sl—_  


Gerard springs up and before I can even blink, he’s got a knife to my throat. My mouth falls open. “Damn it, Frank,” he whispers, relaxing and lowering his knife, “I thought you were a cop.”  


“So you put a _knife_ to my throat?” I shouldn’t be surprised.  


“Can’t be too careful,” he says, flopping back onto the couch in a sitting position. “What are you doing out here?”  


“I, um….” The words glue to the top of my mouth. What do I say anyway? _‘I want to know if you were going to kiss me earlier, or if I’m just imaging things because you’re hot.’_ That will go over smoothly, I’m sure.  


“You, um…?” Gerard prompts, leaning his head back.  


“Were you sleeping?” I ask, because there seems to be a mental detour around the real question I came to ask.  


Gerard yawns. “Nope.”  


“That’s not good,” I say. “You need to sleep. When was the last time you slept?”  


“I think I passed out a few times when we were walking…” Gerard muses.  


“No, I mean a real night’s sleep?”  


“The night before I met you,” he replies after a moment. “God, you’re like coffee. Keeping me up all night,” he whines, rubbing his eyes.  


My heart sort of flip flops in my chest.  


_Like a fish_ , my brain comments, _out of water_.  


“Do I keep you awake?” I wonder, feigning nonchalance.  


Gerard yawns again and shakes his head. “It’s funny, but when I’m super tired, I can’t fall asleep. It’s like, I keep dozing off and jerking awake because I think I’m falling or something.”  


I frown. “That’s not good.” _Yeah, I thought he might have been kept up for the same reasons_ you _were_ , my brain agrees. _Now_ that _would’ve been good._  


Gerard smiles wanly. “Tell my brain that.”  


“ _What?_ ” I blurt a little too loudly.  


He gives me a funny look. “What’s wrong with _you_?”  


“Nothing,” I snap. _Are you a compulsive liar, or…?_ my brain inquires.  


_You have_ got _to shut up when I’m in the middle of conversations._  


“Are you sure?” Gerard checks.  


I roll my eyes theatrically. “Positive.”  


He shrugs, yawns, and repeats, “What are you doing out here?”  


I shrug back. “I…couldn’t sleep,” I tell him. My brain sends me a wordless criticism. _Well, it’s not a lie_ , I insist defensively.  


“And so your plan was to wake me up and talk to me?” he grumbles.  


_Yeah, that_ was _a bad idea_ , I admit. “Of course not,” I fib, shaking my head.  


He raises his eyebrows. “So you were just gonna watch me sleep.”  


“No!” I say quickly. “No, I just…I was gonna _see_ if you were awake, and _then_ talk to you if you were, and you _were_ , and…we’re talking.” _Your eloquence in the English language never ceases to amaze_ , my brain sniffs.  


_I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve been acquainted, Monsieur Know-It-All_ , I return.  


Gerard doesn’t answer for a moment. Then he yawns. “Well, I am straight out of conversation starters, Frank.”  


“Me too,” I respond awkwardly.  


“And I’m gonna try to go to sleep now,” he hints.  


“Okay.” I don’t leave. Hesitantly, I start, “You know, earlier? Were you gonna—”  


“Good _night_ , Frank,” Gerard emphasizes.  


I bite my lip. “‘Night,” I mumble, turning to go. _What, you came all the way out here and you’re not gonna ask? Don’t give him_ another _reason to dislike you_ , my brain scoffs. So, with as much bravado as I can summon up, I spin around and march right up to the couch.  


“What part of—” he starts to whine, but I put my hands on his cheeks and he falters to a stop.  


“I like you,” I tell him, managing to keep the shakiness from encroaching on my voice. “And I know you were going to kiss me earlier.”  


He is silent and still. I drop my hands and stand up straight. “But I’m not gonna do anything you don’t want me to do.” With that, I turn to leave, but his hand shoots out and catches mine. We stay like that, frozen, with our hands clasped. It’s simple human contact, putting one’s palm against another’s, and yet we crave that simplistic act. There is something ethereal about holding someone’s hand that can’t be put into words, though I’ll be damned if I don’t try. I don’t want to be cheesy and say magical, but that’s the only word I can think of. This beatific thing was born from the acts of two sinners.  


We fall asleep like that, fingers entwined, lost in the power of touch.

_Then holding hands and life was perfect, just like up on the screen…._  



	21. Imprisoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of vignettes

The door is kicked in. I’m not awake yet. The police are here. How did they know? Gerard is dragged away from me. He still holds that knife. He slashes at them. An overwhelming amount of hands restrain him. There is a moment when I see a light going out of his eyes. _I never thought they’d get me here_ , is what that light seems to farewell. His brother is also arrested. I am taken out of the apartment, but no handcuffs clamp down on my wrists. If I could, I would tell them it was all my fault, that I killed the men and kidnapped Gerard as a decoy. An unbelievable story, but I would have told it. Yet my mouth is incapable of speech. There is nothing to say. It is as if the Miranda Rights have become laws. But I am not arrested. The Way brothers are driven away in a police car, I in another. While they are prisoners, I am free. Is this a nightmare? Will I wake up to find Gerard safe and sound? Will I wake up in my bed at home, the whole ordeal a dream? I could never imagine up someone like Gerard. He is the kind of person who you never forget. He’s the kind of bright light that flares up but extinguishes quickly. He gives _insanity_ a bad name. And I love him.

* * *

The car takes me to the police station, behind the car with Gerard and Mikey. Even though our rides stop at the same time, the cop in my vehicle waits until they are inside to escort me in. I am not allowed to talk to them. I am not allowed to defend them. I might as well be a criminal too. Gerard’s red hair turns a corner as I enter the precinct. It’s incredible how much I miss just the sight of that flaming hair. I miss the grins that were menacing and the frowns that were smiles. I miss his eyes. And it’s been less than an hour. But I miss him because I know we will never be together again. The cops try to talk to me. I don’t hear what they’re saying. They could be speaking Italian, instructing me on how to slice a mango, and all I would understand is that they took Gerard away. They took him away from me and they won’t ever give him back. I wonder if they’ll let him go if I admit I wasn’t kidnapped. So far, they think I’m lying, that I’m suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. I’m not; I was never imprisoned by him—quite the opposite—I was set free. They won’t hear me so I don’t hear them. This isn’t how I want to be saved.

* * *

My mother is crying at me. My father is grasping at me. The police are talking at me. I am alone in my head. No internal dialogue ensues because I am alone. Truly, devastatingly alone. They will lock up Gerard. They will lock up his brother. They will return me to the real prison that is my life. I’ll wake up every morning, empty. I’ll shower and put on fresh clothes. I’ll go downstairs and eat breakfast that I won’t taste. I’ll talk meaninglessly to my parents and forget what I’m saying as I’m saying it. The unimportance of life will swallow me as I trudge to school with my schoolbag slung on my shoulders. The school will greet me with punches and insults; the teachers will smile like I’m special. I will drift through the day and nothing can bring me down from this tall tower I’m standing on the edge of. Gravity is ubiquitous in reality, but I won’t be in reality anymore. I will be in my mind, floating like a helium balloon. And he will be there, an image in red and white for me to revere. My love will not be deteriorated, but outside I will waste and wither away. How can anyone understand that the villain was my savior?

* * *

I meet a girl at school. Don’t remember her from before—well, I don’t remember her shoes. I don’t know many faces here, but I remember shoes, because that’s where I was always looking: down. She might have been attractive to any other guy, but I’m never noticing. It doesn’t matter. Neither of us care. We have meaningless sex in the boys’ bathroom during afternoon classes. It’s enjoyable enough. There’s a life that spills into you from the other person, but that vanishes once it’s over. We use each other almost daily, like lifelines to some distant shore; we’ll never reach it, but we’ll stay afloat just to see it. There isn’t anything special about loosing your virginity. It’s only a big deal if you make it a big deal. It only matters if the one you loose it to matters. This girl doesn’t matter to me. I don’t even remember her name. I wonder if she knows mine. Is it wrong to love someone for their life but not for who they are? A buoy keeps one from drowning, but it doesn’t pull one from the water.

* * *

The bullies still spit and trip me up, but the emptiness in my eyes keeps them distanced. They are afraid of me. Like if they look into my eyes too much, the emptiness will start to eat them too. Do they know I tried to kill myself because of them? Would they care if they did? Are there humans under those sadistic outer casings, or, like an onion, would you discard layer after layer only to have nothing left? There is nothing more lionized than nothing. Weekends are strange. No school, no meandering around empty halls or crowded halls. No faceless names or nameless faces. What do I do? My mother nags at me to go outside and have fun. I ask if I can see Gerard. She’ll start to cry. “I’m sorry you feel like this,” she’ll say, “but I am never letting that monster anywhere near you ever again!” How old am I? Surely she can’t stop me when I’m eighteen. When is my birthday? What day is it? Am I alive? Does anything matter if you’re already dead?


	22. Break

_You have to see him_ , my brain says, making its first appearance since the police broke down Mikey’s door five taxing days ago.  


_How?_ I reply hopelessly. _No one will let me._  


The brain does not converse further. I sigh miserably, and try to fall asleep.  


Insomnia is a damn lonely dream.

* * *

I am just opening my math textbook in class, when I catch sight of something red outside the window. My heart leaps as I zero in on the color, but it’s merely the hue of someone’s jacket. Not Gerard, but the next best thing. Mumbling something to the teacher about needing the bathroom, I abandon my books and bag and rush from the room. When I get outside, he’s sitting on a bench facing away from me.  


“Mikey,” I greet him anxiously. “Has something happened? Why are you here? How’s Gerard?”  


“Gerard,” Mikey replies, not looking at me as I sit beside him, “is being transported to Northern State Prison in Newark at 3pm today.”  


I sigh. “Why are you telling me this?”  


“I was released,” Mikey answers calmly, “because my brother claimed he forced me to let him into my flat. Since there’s no evidence against that, and I’m a cop with no criminal record, they had to let me go.”  


I run my hands through my messy hair in frustration. “I know,” I growl, “that he’s not all bad, okay? I _know_ that. But it changes _nothing_.”  


Mikey finally faces me, glaring. “I’ve told you when he’ll be in a car on his way to a high security prison. 3pm. You got that?”  


I give him a perplexed look before it dawns on me. I breathe, “You want me to break him out.” It’s not a question.  


Mikey looks away again. “I’m a cop, Frank. I just wanted you to know you’re safe, and that I’m sorry for what my brother did to you. But they’ll be taking him away to _Newark_ at _3pm today_ …so you don’t need to worry.”  


I stare at him like I’m trying to read his mind. “How?” is all I ask, but it’s more a demand than a question.  


Mikey casually pulls his gun out and leaves it on the bench as he stands up. “Stealing a police officer’s gun is a huge offense,” he tells me seriously. “It isn’t loaded, but it’s a .45 colt like your father’s was. Magazine holds seven rounds. I presume he still has bullets lying around somewhere?”  


Nodding mutely, I stand as well, and tuck the empty weapon into the waistband of my pants, trusting that my hoodie will conceal it.  


“Good luck, Frank,” Mikey tells me as he walks away without looking back. “Gerard has many contacts.”  


“Thank you, officer,” I say softly after him, but I’m not sure he hears. My bag is still in the classroom, but I don’t overly need it; I have a spare backpack at home. Turning away from the wretched school—with its wretched people and wretched memories, wretched girls and wretched boys—I jog the twelve blocks home. _I’m coming, Gerard_ , I try to communicate to him via telepathy. _I haven’t given up on you yet!_

* * *

  


This is my parents’ car I’m driving. My parents don’t work far from home, so they rarely take the car to get to work. _Lucky me._  


My backpack is stuffed with clothes, toiletries, and money I stole from my parents’ safe. I feel horrible about it, I really do. But what choice did I have? It seems to be from the million they withdrew for my ransom. I took about half of it. I don’t know why they didn’t put it back in the bank. Maybe they thought they might need it at hand, though I can’t fathom why. It’s dangerous to have that much money in the house—if anyone knew about it…. Maybe the money is illegal somehow. I mean, I wouldn’t have thought they could pay the ransom. Could they have sold things or borrowed from a loan shark? But, it’s not my concern anymore.  


It’s almost three when I see that lovely flash of red I’ve been waiting for. Raising the binoculars to my eyes again, I watch as Gerard and another prisoner are escorted into an armored van. There are two cops in the back with the inmates, and two more in the front. All are armed.  


_You are in way over your head_ , my brain decides to inform me.  


_Oh, thank you for telling me_ , I reply sardonically. _And thank you for showing up. Where have you been?_  


_No conflicting thoughts equals no need for you to argue in your head_ , my brain says, sounding bored.  


_That’s just stupid_ , I reply. _Who came up with that rule?_  


_You._ My brain comes back to the point: _You won’t be able to pull this off. You do know what the odds are of you succeeding, right?_  


_Don’t remind me_ , I growl, lowering the binoculars and starting the engine as the armored van lumbers up to the gate.  


_Approximately one in a million_ , my brain continues, against my express wishes.  


I try to ignore it as the van gets past security and turns left, away from me. Following at a safe distance, I try in vain to catch a glimpse of Gerard through the tiny back window.  


_One. In. A million_ , my brain emphasizes distractingly. _If breaking out of prison was so easy, it would happen more often._  


There is a length of road where the armored van and my parent’s car are the only vehicles in sight. As I pull up beside the van at an unnecessary stoplight, I tell my brain, _True. But you’re forgetting something_.  


_Oh?_ my brain sighs. _What’s that?_  


I aim my gun at the nearest tire. _There’s always gotta be that_ one _in a million_. The shot is loud, and the tire deflates immediately.  


_Fucking optimist_ , my brain mutters.  


These cops have been trained for this type of ambush, though, and are barely shocked before they fire back. I duck down as glass shatters, then open my door slightly for a clear shot at the near back tire. The van tries to shudder forward, but all it accomplishes is a slow circle. I take this distraction to fire at the driver, no longer concerned about casualties. I hit the driver in the head, shattering his window in the process. The other reaches for the intercom, but I shoot it, surprised by my accuracy. The cop throws his door open, and steps out, hoping to get to better cover. Seeing my chance, I fling myself out of my seat and onto the asphalt. As soon as both of the cop’s feet are on the ground, I fire at his ankles. The first shot misses, but the second hits home. Six of seven bullets. When he falls, I get him in the head. Seven of seven. What am I supposed to do about the ones in the back?  


Then my brain makes sure I know what an idiot I am, and directs me to snag the nearest of the dead cops’ guns. Apprehensively, I creep to the back. _They’ll shoot me once I open this door._  


_He saved you_ , my brain says. _Now it’s time for you to save him._  


Bracing myself, I reach out to grab the handle, but before I can, the door slams into my face. I stumble backwards, hand to my bloody nose. _Don’t fail Gerard!_ my brain shouts, and I raise my gun, trying to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is welcomed!


	23. Affection

“Woah!” a familiar voice yells. “Point that somewhere else, Shortie!” My vision clears and I see Gerard hopping out of the van, grinning.  


“Gee!” I crow, and almost knock him over with the force of my hug.  


He chuckles and musses my hair before saying, “Okay, but seriously, point that somewhere else.”  


“Sorry!” I yelp, letting him go so I can set the gun down carefully on the lip of the van door. That’s when I notice the two bodies slumped in the back. The other prisoner is taking off his leg cuffs with their keys. I look questioningly at Gerard.  


“They were dead before we were out the gates,” he states proudly, grin still in place.  


I attempt to glare at the boyish murderer. “The loss of life isn’t a joke.”  


“If life ain’t just a joke, then why am I laughing?” he asks, humor not dampened.  


I mull this over. “That’s good,” I say. “Is that a quote from somewhere?”  


Gerard gestures to his head. “My brain.”  


I refrain from my customary response whenever someone refers to their brain as a sentient being apart from themselves— _(What?! I’m_ not _completely crazy?)_ —and instead tell him, “You should write poetry. You’d be a good poet.”  


Gerard shrugs, and wrinkles his nose. “I’d rather be a songwriter.”  


I snort. “I can’t imagine you writing music.”  


He glares. “Why not?”  


“I don’t know. It just doesn’t fit. You’re too…impatient.”  


He taps his hand on my nose. “I’m gonna prove you wrong,” he declares haughtily.  


The other criminal clears his throat, and we make room for him to step down. “This is Carlos,” Gerard introduces him. “Carlos, this is Frank.”  


Carlos nods at me, and all he says is “I’m a thief and he’s a murderer. We make a pretty good team.”  


I resist the urge to laugh, because _murder isn’t funny, Frank._  


_It’s a little bit funny_ , my brain allows, and I leak a giggle.  


Gerard says, “Frank is my boyfriend.” I can tell this statement is mostly a test for Carlos, but warmth spreads through me at the words. Unlike last time he claimed this, it means something more than a vain wish. I grab his hand, beaming.  


Carlos, who has been expressionless up till now, grants us a small smile. “Cute couple,” he comments, then to Gerard: “I’d love to work with you again sometime.”  


“Likewise,” Gerard replies, and they shake hands. The thief disappears into the shadows of alleyways as Gerard and I get into my parents’ car. I let Gerard drive.  


“So where are we going?” I ask him. _We’re eloping!_ I finally realize excitedly. _I’ve never eloped before!_  


_Well_ , my brain points out, _I’d hope not. You should probably limit elopements to once a lifetime at most._  


_Must you spoil all the fun?_ I inquire, though I’m not bothered in the least.  


_Yes_ , my brain replies sullenly, but I ignore it.  


“First, we have to stop by the original crime scene. You know”—he winks at me—"our first date.”  


“Why the hell would we go there?” I cry incredulously. “And if that was a date, I’m _appalled_ at you, trying to frame me for murder. That’s at _least_ third date material.”  


“Can’t help it,” he says cheerfully. “I’m a hopeless romantic.” He reaches over and grabs my hand as he drives. “And we’re going there to pick up something.”  


My curiosity piques. “Care to tell me what?” I venture.  


“What,” he tells me. We reach the scene, and he jumps out. “Stay here,” he orders before jogging over the dumpster I leant against with a gun not so many nights ago. Two weeks or so. It’s extraordinary how so much can change in so little time.  


He pulls a backpack from the dumpster—the same one he’d had false passports and money and disguises in. “How did you…?” I trail off as he throws the pack into the backseat.  


“Mikey has some great hiding places in his apartment,” Gerard answers simply, looking agitated as he stands by the driver’s door.  


“You okay?” I question in concern.  


“Get out of the car,” he orders.  


I startle. “What?” I ask stupidly.  


_He’s going to leave you here. He’s a psychopath after all. He used you, and now he’s done with you. What were you thinking?_  


_Brain, shut up_ , I command frantically.  


“Get out of the fucking car,” he repeats, more irritated by the second. I warily oblige.  


“Why do I—” I begin as I shut my door behind me, but suddenly Gerard has slid across the hood to my side, and backs me against the car. _What the fuck?_ my brain inquires. _Is he gonna kill you or something?_  


Gerard grins wickedly at me, his arms snaking around my neck. Breathing becomes difficult. “I’ve been waiting too long for this,” he growls, pulling my head forward. Our lips are hot and wet against each other, burning lovelily in contrast with the crisp afternoon breeze. _Finally_. I shiver as he trails his hands down my back. There’s no air, no air I can find, just him. But I don’t care. I feel so safe with him. Nothing can hurt me. Nothing can hurt _us_.  


Gerard is a good kisser. I whisper this, and he growls. The car crushes my hips as Gerard presses against me, but I don’t care that my legs are falling asleep.  


I don’t know how long we stay like that, embracing against my parents’ car like we have all the time in the world. Like we’re _not_ wanted criminals. It is a simulacrum of eternity eclipsed by an instant before Gerard pulls his head away. I don’t feel like opening my eyes. If I just keep them closed, maybe we can stay here forever, without a care in the world. His breath tickles my ear as he whispers, “You are perfect.”  


If I was butter, I would melt. As I am, I sort of jellify, knees wobbling as I struggle to remain upright. The car takes most of my weight. _Thank you, car_. Speech is unavailable; I have forgotten how it works. I wait. Slowly, my throat unfreezes and I breathe, barely audible, “I love you.” _Love:_ it rolls off the tongue like liquid, elegant, fluid, not a doubt present in the utterance of it.  


The perfection of this moment is shattered as Gerard promptly steps back. My eyes open to see him retreat to the driver’s side and get into the car. Dazed, I open my door and get in. Words glue to the top of my mouth like peanut butter, sticky and thick. I can’t get them to leave. Gerard doesn’t speak. He starts the car and drives. His expression is one of consternation.  


‘Love’ has twenty-eight—albeit similar—definitions in the dictionary. I prefer to substitute them all for my own:  


_Love: it entices, it traps, and it kills._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback always appreciated! Thank you to those who have left kudos on this work, and to CurrentlyLost and saratza for commenting!


	24. Eloping

“Okay,” I break the agonizing silence after a full hour of driving. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”  


Gerard barely glances at me. “I was thinking we could go to California. For a while. We’d need to wear disguises, but it should work. Swear to god I won’t make you be an old lady again.” He attempts a smile, but it’s obviously forced.  


I let out a huge sigh. _‘Cause I just can’t keep my fucking mouth shut_.  


My brain is mentally slapping me, having finally recovered from its state of shock. _You idiot! Why did you say that? Are you_ trying _to push him away? You don’t tell that to someone you’ve known for only a few days right after your first kiss! What the fuck was that?_  


I don’t defend myself, because it’s all miserably true. Gerard clears his throat awkwardly. “Look, Frank…” he starts uncomfortably.  


I decide to spare him the apology. “No, Gee, I’m sorry,” I lie uneasily, “I was just, uh, caught up in the moment. I didn’t mean it.”  


Gerard hesitates briefly. “No, yeah, of course,” he blurts. “I mean, me too. I didn’t _mean_ what I said—no one’s _perfect_. You’re, you know, normal. Almost.” He bites the inside of his cheek to stop talking.  


_Great_ , I comment to my brain. _That is what I want on my tombstone: ‘Frank Iero Jr., 1986-2003; died of stupidity; almost normal.’_  


_That would be a brutally honest and accurate epitaph_ , my brain replies unsympathetically.  


I grump something obscene about where my brain should stuff its opinions, and then we both shut up.  


The silence in the car now is worse than before.  


_Ugh, why are relationships so hard?_ I inquire of my brain, but it doesn’t deign to respond.  


“What, uh, disguises do you have in mind?” I ask lightly, trying to relieve the tension.  


“Mikey added some stuff,” Gerard tells me clinically. “He got us more fake ID’s. Check them out. If you want.”  


I reach into the backseat and grab the bag. After rifling through it a bit, I locate several passports and ID’s in a bundle. When I look through the images, I can’t help but laugh.  


Gerard looks over curiously. “What?”  


“Have you seen these?” I ask, grinning.  


Gerard pauses. “No…why?”  


“My god,” I report, trying to stop giggling. “Apparently Mikey wants you to dress as a woman.”  


“ _What?_ ” Gerard demands incredulously.  


_Wow, I think that’s the first time_ I’ve _surprised_ him _,_ I remark to my brain.  


_Very refreshing_ , my brain replies. _Surprises are nicer when you’re the one doing the surprising, don’t you think?_  


_Definitely_ , I agree. “You’re a hot blonde chick here— _very_ large breasts, _Gerard_ —and in this one, you’re a brunette with…is that photoshopped?”  


“Is _what_ photoshopped?” Gerard wonders anxiously, trying to see the picture as he drives.  


I tilt the image away from his eyes. “Wait a second….” I squint. “Make, uh, make your lips as big as possible.”  


Gerard glances at me warily, but puffs his lips out.  


I guffaw, “Oh, no, it’s not photoshopped!”  


“What are you laughing at?” he roars, like he can scare me into saying something different.  


“You’re so funny,” I giggle.  


“ _Am_ I?” he challenges in a low voice.  


I can’t stop laughing. “ _Especially_ when you’re trying to be menacing.”  


He glares.  


“Emphasis,” I add, “on trying.”  


Gerard huffs. “Why do _I_ have to be a girl? You’re girlier.”  


“ _Girlier_?” I nitpick. “That’s _not_ a word.”  


“Is now,” he proclaims, and that’s the law. If it’s not already there, write into your dictionary, between _girlie_ and _girlish_ :  


_Girlier_ : [GUR-lee-er] variant of _girly_. usually followed by _than_. def.: _adj_. one who encompasses girlish qualities to a greater extant than another person. ex.: Frank Iero is _girlier than_ Gerard Way, according to the latter.  


“Well, Mikey actually made me pretty cool,” I say smugly. “I look like a bouncer—oh. How do I fake muscles?”  


Gerard snorts. “We’ll stuff paper towels in your jacket sleeves.”  


I smile cherubically back at him. “And in your shirt?” I pull an item of clothing from the pack. “Oh, not to worry, Gerard! Mikey has provided you with a bra.”  


Gerard looks sideways at me and the garment, then elbows me in the side.  


“Ow!” I complain, not that it actually hurt. I hold up the next ID. “Hey, in the other one, I look kinda like John Lennon.”  


Gerard shakes his head. “Mikey, you are….” He doesn’t finish the sentence but he’s grinning.  


I bite my lip as I watch his reaction. “You’ll…be able to see him again, right? You know, someday?”  


Gerard’s smile fades. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, of course.”  


Neither of us is convinced, but we both try very hard to be. I wish I hadn’t asked.  


_It would have come up eventually_ , my brain attempts to soothe me. _Whether or not you asked._  


_But there could’ve been a few more hours of peace_ , I reply sadly.  


_Peace is an illusion_ , my brain tells me.  


_Yes_ , I agree, _and that’s why we should entertain the idea._  


“Yeah,” Gerard repeats. “Yeah, we’ll see him again. We’ll find a way.” He reaches over and squeezes my hand, but retreats just as quickly.  


_I hope the damage I caused to our relationship isn’t irreparable._  


_One can hope, or one can take control of one’s fate_ , my brain opines.  


_What are you, Dr. Phil?_ I scoff.  


_I take offense to that_ , my brain sniffs. _Now take his hand._  


_No_ , I decide. _I have to give him time._  


The brain is adamant. _Uh, not to be corny, but he took your heart. The least you can demand in return is his hand._  


_Oh, shut it, Dr. Phil_. I lean over and grab his hand off the steering wheel. He relinquishes it without a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is appreciated! Thank you to those who have commented and left kudos!


	25. Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: homophobia, violence

**3 Months Later:**

It’s dark. I’m not sure what happened. My head is pounding painfully. _Am I hungover? Where am I? Where’s Gerard? Why can’t I move? Am I in a chair? My wrists hurt. Why are my arms behind my back? Am I tied up?_ “Gerard?” I whisper in a panic.  


“Frank,” his voice sighs from somewhere beside me. “You’re okay.”  


“What’s going on?” I hiss.  


“I’m sorry,” he says. His words slur a little.  


“Sorry for what?” I wonder anxiously. _Something is terribly wrong_ , my brain warns.  


“I dragged you into this mess,” he replies, sighing again.  


“Where are we?” I ask, not sure what he’s talking about.  


He is quiet a moment. “I’m sorry,” he repeats eventually.  


“Gerard—” I begin but he interrupts me with:  


“You’re going to be okay, I promise.”  


I can’t speak for a few moments. All I feel is dread. _Why is he saying this?_  


“G-Gerard, what—” I finally stutter out, but a door slams open. I look around, but I can’t see anything. I think there’s a bag on my head.  


“Well, well, well,” a villainous voice chuckles, footsteps echoing closer. I visualize mustache twirling and evil hand rubbing. “Gerard fucking Way and his boyfriend.”  


“Who are you?” I demand, angling my head toward the sound of the voice. _Don’t act tough, stupid!_ my brain snaps. _That’s just asking to get beaten up_.  


_What the hell else am I supposed to do?_ I retort anxiously. The bag flies off my head. In front of me is a large thug who cracks his knuckles. Behind him are two others, just as intimidating. I swivel my head to look for Gerard and find him slumped in a chair a few yards away, bound but with no bag over his head. I almost _wish_ his face was covered. His nose is bloody, he has two black eyes, and a split lip. His jaw is swollen. Horrified, I turn back to our captors. “What did you do to him?” I try to shout, but it comes out as a ragged whisper.  


The thug in front cracks his neck. “You wanna live, kid?” he asks.  


I don’t answer right away, suspicious, but then nod cautiously.  


“Good choice,” he growls. “We don’t have a problem with you, so how about we make a deal here? We’ll let you go, and you don’t say a word to anyone, alright?”  


I pull my eyes away from his towering figure to look at Gerard. “What about him?”  


The thug chuckles again. “He stays with us.”  


I find the will power to glare. “I’m not leaving without him.”  


The thugs sneer together. “Don’t be an idiot, punk,” the front guy tells me. I consider the possibility that the other two are mute. “You don’t have to die today.”  


“Frank,” Gerard mumbles through his swollen jaw. It looks painful to speak. “Just go.”  


I glare at him too, then back at the thugs. “Why are you doing this?” I demand, fuming even as my heart rate escalates in fear.  


The thugs exchange a loaded look, as if to decide whether or not to disclose any information. The speaker of the house finally addresses me. “Ronald Garcia, Freddie and Martin Roark. Those names mean anything to you?”  


I furrow my eyebrows. _Why do they sound so familiar? I don’t know anyone with those names personally. Something on TV? The news…? Oh._ It dawns on me. “The men killed in the Triple Belleville Murder,” I say. “You’re friends of theirs.”  


The main thug nods.  


“But _he_ didn’t kill them,” I blurt, nodding towards Gerard.  


The thugs exchange another wary glance. “You were there, kid?”  


“Yes,” I gasp. I don’t know how I’m speaking through this paralyzing terror.  


“Well, then who did?”  


“Me.” My mouth forms the word without thinking. Gerard looks at me sharply.  


The thugs guffaw. “ _You_?”  


“I had a gun,” I insist.  


Gerard is squinting at me through his puffy blue-black eyelids. He says nothing, but his eyes are pleading with me. _Stop,_ they seem to say. _Don’t do this_. But he doesn’t speak a word. _Why doesn’t he deny it?_  


_You don’t want him to, remember?_ my brain reminds me.  


I feel stung, unable to find a suitable argument. To stop my lower lip from trembling, I go on, “This guy was being chased by three other guys. They were running toward me, so I lifted the gun and fired. The guy owed me so he hid me out for a while, set up some bogus ransom. Then things just went to shit from there.”  


There is a silence. Then one of the mutes speaks up. “ _You_ shot them?”  


I nod, my gaze glued to the floor.  


The first thug grabs my chin with his ham-like hand, forcing my head up. “You’re not lying to me, are you?” he thunders.  


“Why would I lie to get myself killed?” I mumble as his vice-like grip tightens painfully.  


“This your boyfriend, faggot?” he chortles, gesturing to Gerard. His rancid breath sticks to my face.  


I glare at the offending man. “ _You’re_ the one practically kissing me, buddy,” I reply bitterly, evading the question.  


Pain lances through my head as his fist comes down on my temple. Dizziness assails me.  


“Stop!” someone yells irately, and I realize it’s Gerard. “He’s a fucking liar! _I_ shot your stupid fucking friends, okay? Leave the fucking kid alone!”  


“Shut up!” another voice orders, and there’s a sickening grunt succeeded by a whimper that I know is from Gerard.  


_I’m not a kid_ , I think, and I don’t know why this feels so much like a betrayal.  


_He’s just defending you_ , my brain tells me rationally.  


_Well, he shouldn’t_ , I snap angrily.  


_When he wasn’t, you were upset_ , my brain mutters in exasperation. _And you call_ me _fickle?_  


“So you both claim you’re the one who killed our friends,” thug #1 summarizes. He lifts his arms like he’s shrugging. “Why don’t we just kill you both then?”  


Gerard strains against his binds. “He’s a stupid fucking kid that thinks he’s in love with me, okay?” he growls. “Just let him the fuck go!”  


I swallow hard. _I’m not going to cry in front of them. I won’t let them see me weak._  


_He’s just trying to save you_ , my brain recites. _He doesn’t mean it._  


_You don’t know that._  


_If he didn’t care about you, he’d let you take the blame_ , my brain insists.  


_Just because he turned out to have a conscience, doesn’t mean he gives a shit about me!_ I shout at my brain.  


“So he _is_ your boyfriend, faggot,” the thug says pleasantly, leaning down to my eye level. I glare at him, feeling nauseous. “Oh, did he hurt your feelings, cocksucker?”  


I drop my gaze to the floor, trying to slow my breathing.  


“Let’s just get this over with,” one of the wingmen grumbles.  


That hand grabs my face again, squishing my cheeks so that my mouth opens. Cool metal on my lips, pressing against the back of my throat. _Was I always meant to die this way? Fate, you are conniving._ A voice, Gerard’s, yelling and cursing and spitting obscenities at the thugs. “Frank!” he says, and I’m touched that he would move his swollen jaw around so much for me. Enduring pain for the sake of last words. “I’m so sorry! I lo—”  


I hear an earth-shattering bang and the rest is silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and let me know what you think! Thanks to those who left kudos and/or commented! I appreciate it!


	26. Promise

Silence. Except the harsh breathing of another person. I begin to feel my limbs bouncing limply in time with the breaths. I didn’t think death would be so strange.  


The person swears on one of their breaths, and this wakes me up more. I try to locate my eyelids on my body so I can open them; I find my mouth first. “Gee,” I croak through dry lips, and suddenly that noise is a catalyst for all the other pains in my body to flare up. I groan as I become more aware, letting my eyes flutter open at last.  


Above me the breathing has faltered, and as I find the outline of this person’s face, I realize I’m being carried bridal style. They put me down, but my eyes are unfocused. “Gee?” I say again, reaching a tired arm out to him.  


“Can you hear me?” the person asks, and my heart constricts when it’s not Gerard’s voice. I blink rapidly, trying to clear my vision. “Frank, can you hear me?” The voice that isn’t Gerard’s lets out a huff of air in agitation, before I feel a hand slapping across my face none too gently.  


“Ow!” I protest, bringing my hand up to rub the sting from my cheek.  


“Frank!” the voice hisses. “Look at me!”  


Finally I do, my eyes focusing at last. “Mikey?” I say in confusion. _What’s he doing here?_  


Mikey sighs in relief as he looks over his shoulder with his brows drawn. “Frank,” he says, “can you walk?”  


I nod, trying to find my feet. Mikey rises from where he was squatting beside me and takes my hand, pulling me up. Immediately, my legs falter, and I collapse against Mikey’s chest. He’s wearing a black jacket this time, rather than the red leather one, like he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself. _I miss the red._  


“Frank, you have to stand,” he tells me firmly, and I try putting weight on my feet again. I sway but remain upright, my hand clutching Mikey’s sleeve for balance.  


“Where’s Gee?” I ask, clarity seeping into my senses. We’re outside in an alleyway and it’s dark.  


I begin to remember walking with Gerard along Venice Beach. We had decided to explore southern California. It was evening and we were holding hands. We’d just bought some ice cream from one of the shops, and we were turning down a side street on our way back to our tiny apartment. Gerard had gotten some of his rocky road ice cream on the tip of his nose. I’d leaned over and licked it off. He grinned and did the same to me. _“I didn’t have anything on my nose,”_ I protested, wrinkling said nose. _“I know,”_ he said, and he kissed my cheek. _“Nothing on your cheek either,”_ he added, and then he proceeded to my other cheek. _“And nothing there.”_ He put his face close enough to mine that our breaths mingled in the little space between our mouths. _“Nothing here,”_ he whispered, his lips brushing against mine, our melting ice creams forgotten in our grasps. Then Gerard had gone still, eyes snapping open. I heard a deep, sinister chuckle nearby. But by the time he began to turn, there was _—a sharp pain in my forehead—a rag pressing to my nose and mouth—a somewhat sweet, chemical smell—rough hands dragging me—_  


“That’s why I need you to stand,” Mikey says, voice strained. “I need to get Gerard. He wouldn’t let me help him first….” He trails off, looking behind him again.  


_—a dark room—Gerard promising me that I’m gonna be okay—his swollen face—the thugs laughing—Gerard pleading for my life—a gun in my mouth—Gerard saying he lo—_  


“We have to get him out of there,” I breathe, feeling dizzy as I struggle to take a step forward.  


Mikey stops me with a hand on my chest. “Wrong way, for one,”—my brain quips, _He_ is _the wrong Way_ —“and two: they’re all dead, the men who were gonna kill you both. Gerard’s safe for now, he just can’t walk by himself. Stay here, I’ll bring him out.” Mikey leans me against the wall of the alleyway and begins to walk away.  


_He’s leaving you here_ , my brain panics, _alone._  


“Mikey, wait!” I hiss, feeling like I have to keep my voice down. “I’m coming with you.”  


“No, stay there,” he calls back, and then tosses an object at me. “Just in case. I’ll be right back.”  


I fail to catch it, but it skids harmlessly on the ground and lands near my feet. A phone. A burner cell.  


_—a gun in my mouth—a loud bang—the gun, unfired, sliding from my mouth, smacking hard against my teeth on the way out—shouts—Gerard whooping—a limp, heavy arm bashing into my face—a heavy darkness—_  


I gulp in air, light-headed, sliding down the wall until I’m sitting against it. I can’t seem to get enough oxygen. _Gerard, where are you?_ I’m alone in the alley.  


_Calm down, will you?_ my brain, ever the rational one, tells me. _Mikey’s getting him now. It’ll all be fine._  


_What if those men aren’t all dead?_ I worry back. _What if there’s more of them? How did they even find us?_  


_Jeez, get your shit together,_ my brain brain scorns. _You’re no help to Gerard hyperventilating._  


_I’m not hyperventilating_ , I retort, my vision beginning to swim again. _There just isn’t air._  


_You’re literally hyperventilating_ , my brain concludes.  


_Well, you’re not being very helpful yourself_ , I bite back.  


_Yeah_ , my brain snarks, _and I’m also not the one having a panic attack instead of helping Gerard._  


_Yes, you are_ , I reply, smiling slightly. _We’re the same person. Don’t forget that._  


My brain harrumphs disdainfully, but I’ve distracted myself enough to even out my breathing. _Gerard will be okay_ , I chant to myself. _Gerard will be okay. Gerard will—_  


I hear a scuffle around the corner Mikey disappeared from. It must be them. Clutching the burner phone, I scramble unsteadily to my feet. I stumble forward as my vision goes black for a few seconds from standing up too fast, feeling along the brick wall for support. Something wet tickles my neck as it runs down into my shirt collar. I don’t check to see if it’s blood or sweat.   


I begin to hear voices arguing, still at a low volume. I can’t quite make out what they’re saying. _Is it Gerard and Mikey? Or more thugs?_  


_Maybe you should just stay put and wait for Mikey_ , my brain warns.  


_I’m not a coward_ , I proclaim defensively. I continue walking.  


_That’s not what I said_ , my brain relents worryingly. _Just turn around. Just leave._  


I ignore its pleas and turn the corner, dread filling my body.  


_It’s just them._  


Gerard is bruised on every inch of visible skin, and his red hair drips with sweat. _That’s not sweat_ , my brain whispers. _His hair isn’t red anymore, remember? He had to dye it black to blend in._  


“You _need_ medical help,” Mikey is insisting, both hands gripping Gerard’s shoulders.  


_It’s blood_ , I realize, my eyes widening in panic.  


Gerard stands there, beautiful as ever even with his wounds, grinning acidly up at his brother’s concern. “I’m a fugitive, Mikes,” he mumbles, jaw still pink and swollen. “Doesn’t work like that.”  


“Gerard, your life is more important than—” Mikey begins arguing, but I don’t let him finish.  


“Gerard,” I cry, and wobble over to him as fast as I can. Mikey takes a step back, making room for me.  


Gerard stops grinning when he sees me and takes my head gently in his hands as we lean against each other, foreheads touching. Then he moves his head so that our cheeks press against each other, his closed eyelashes brushing against mine, and he wraps his hands around the back of my neck.  


“Frank,” he chokes out in a whisper, his voice wavering. “Frank, I’m so sorry. This was all my fault.”  


“No, it wasn’t, you big idiot,” I mumble.  


“Gee,” Mikey interrupts swiftly. “Frank. We gotta get going. You can make up later.”  


Gerard holds on for a second longer before we pull away and follow after a retreating Mikey. Another moment later I hear sirens in the distance. _Are they for us?_  


After a few blocks we reach Mikey’s car—or a rental, probably—and Gerard and I climb into the backseat so we can stay next to each other. “What am I, your chauffeur?” Mikey complains, but I can tell he’s not really annoyed.  


“Why are you here?” I ask Mikey as we’re driving.  


“Gerard called me,” he says simply, not looking away from the road. The streets are fairly crowded, and I’m grateful for the tinted windows.  


I look at Gerard questioningly. “When? Why didn’t you tell me?”  


Gerard sighs, running his hand through his damp hair. (He doesn’t seem too badly injured. I don’t think all the blood is his.) 

“I didn’t want to worry you,” he tells me quietly. His eyes implore me to understand.  


“It was a couple days ago. Said you were being followed,” Mikey adds.  


_He doesn’t trust me,_ I fret. _He thinks I’ll freak out at anything, and that I’ll mess up all his plans._  


_Well, you are prone to hyperventilating_ , my brain points out.  


_That was one time_ , I protest, but my brain and I both know that’s not true.  


_Same person_ , my brain recites, and my irritated retort is cut short by Gerard’s brother.  


“Then when you guys were taken, he dialed me in his pocket,” Mikey continues. “All I heard were shouts, but I knew what that meant.”  


“And you found us, how?” I ask, because I doubt Gerard could’ve called anyone from the basement we were in.  


Mikey glances at me in the rearview mirror with a raised eyebrow. “I’m a cop.”  


_So, what? He’s suddenly a magician too?_ my brain scoffs, and I have to agree but I’m too tired to argue. I just snuggle closer to Gerard.  


“We’re gonna be okay?” I ask him.  


He kisses my forehead and leaves his lips there for a long time. When he does pull away, he whispers, so only I can hear: “I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and tell me what you think! Thank you to all who have left kudos/commented!!


	27. Resolutions

Once we reach our apartment, we all get inside as fast as we can without drawing attention to ourselves, especially with Gerard’s hair still dripping red.

Mikey closes the door quickly and leans against it as Gerard and I sit at our tiny couch, reminiscent of Gerard’s old couch back in Belleville. “I need to head back,” Mikey says. “Thank god it’s the weekend. But if I’m not at work tomorrow….” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. But we all know the end of that sentence. The police would look for him, find out he’d flown to Los Angeles, and then they’d track Gerard and me down in no time.

“Don’t you want to stay for dinner, Mikes?” Gerard asks, grinning.

_As if we have any food here._

Mikey permits himself a small smile through his stress, and comes over to offer Gerard a hand up from the couch. Gerard takes it and Mikey helps him stand. “See you another time, Gee,” Mikey says, trying valiantly to sound cheerful. “Hopefully under better circumstances.”

“You didn’t think this was fun?” Gerard pouts, but the situation is anything but light, and he pulls his brother into a tight hug.

I look away, feeling like an intruder. I can’t help but feel responsible for their separation.

_I’m pretty sure Gerard would’ve become a fugitive sooner or later_ , my brain offers. _So it’s not really your fault. It’s in his nature._

_Are you saying criminal tendencies lie in DNA?_ I question doubtfully.

_Besides_ , my brain goes on, completely ignoring my point, _if not for you, he’d still be locked away._

I mull over my brain’s assessment in silence, and even though I’m trying to give them their privacy, I still hear Gerard mutter, “Take care, little brother.”

When they end their embrace, I stand to give my own farewell. Rather than the hug I’m going for, Mikey reaches out and ruffles my hair. “Keep him out of trouble,” he tells me.

“Not sure that’s possible,” I mutter, ducking away. “See you later.”

“See you,” he says. It’s too casual, and I want to say more, but nothing seems appropriate.

_Like that’s ever stopped you before_ , my brain quips.

_If I wanted your opinion_ , I respond succinctly, _I would ask for it._

My brain laments, _Then we would never talk._

I inwardly roll my eyes. _How terrible._

Mikey peers through the peephole briefly before opening the door hastily and slipping out into the night. Gerard and I stare at the door after it closes for what must be several minutes. Finally, I turn to Gee. “What do we do now?” I ask him.

Gerard startles a bit, obviously having been deep in thought, and tears his eyes away from the door to meet mine. His eyes look darker than usual. “I thought,” he sighs, sitting back down on the couch, “that you were gonna die back there.”

“I thought I did,” I chuckle humorlessly, plopping down beside him.

He reaches over and takes my hand in his, examining it like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. “I thought they were gonna kill you. And I couldn’t stop them.”

I’ve never seen him look this sad before. “Thank god you’re not an only child,” I try to joke, but Gerard just holds my hand tighter, not breaking his somber mood.

“And I thought you would die,” he continues in a controlled tone, “thinking I didn’t care about you.”

This time I stay silent, squeezing his hand in comfort, hoping he’ll say what I want him to say. What I’ve been waiting for three months to hear him say.

Gerard looks at me suddenly and smiles, shedding his grave demeanor in an instant. “Let’s clean up those cuts,” he suggests cheerily, reaching up to brush his thumb gently over a scratch on my forehead. He promptly stands, releasing my hand, and rushes over to one of the cabinets to pull out a first-aid kit.

_What the hell was that?_ my brain demands as I sit there in disbelief. _He can’t do that! Tell him to come back._

“Gerard,” I say blankly.

“I don’t think you need a full-on bandage, do you? I think a band-aid will do the trick. We have skin-color, Dora the Explorer, and Spongebob. Which one do you want? I think Dora suits you best,” Gerard rambles on and _wow, I’ve never heard him ramble before; he must be freaking out._

_Tell him to forget the band-aids and get over here_ , my brain urges.

“Dora’s fine,” I say.

_Really?_ my brain scorns.

“No!” I amend hastily, standing to face Gerard. “Fuck Dora! Get back here now!”

_Not as eloquent as I would have done it, but I suppose that works_ , my brain muses.

Gerard looks scared shitless as he stands frozen with the Dora band-aid pinched between his fingers. I wordlessly gesture for him to approach, and he does so, dropping the band-aid on the counter and shuffling over to me. He swallows nervously as he comes to stand in front of me and I have to roll my eyes.

“Gee, I’m not gonna hurt you,” I reassure him impatiently, but he doesn’t seem convinced. I sigh dramatically. “Gerard. You were going to tell me something when I had a gun in my mouth,” I prompt.

Gerard opens his mouth, then closes it again, looking like a fish out of water.

“Right before Mikey saved us,” I go on.

After a few more moments of pained silence, Gerard manages to mumble, “Was I?”

“Fuck you,” I mutter, and I turn abruptly toward the door. My hand barely starts to turn the handle before Gerard is there, his arm reaching over mine to hold the door shut.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, staring at me incredulously.

“Out,” I respond, glaring up at him.

“Y-you can’t just leave,” he splutters indignantly. “It’s not safe!”

I twist around so that my back is to the door and I’m facing Gerard fully. “So, what?” I retort acidly. “Should I just stay here with someone who doesn’t care about me?”

Gerard looks like a helpless baby animal. “I…I care about you,” he stutters.

“ _Do_ you?” I challenge, taking a step towards him. He stumbles back slightly. I almost feel guilty from how timid he looks.

“You know how I feel about you, Frank,” he mumbles, taking another step backwards.

“I think you’ve got that mixed up,” I purr, stepping closer and leaning into Gerard’s space. “ _I’m_ the one that said how I feel about _you_. Several months ago. _You’ve_ been more…elusive.”

“No,” Gerard mutters, stepping back again and tripping onto the couch, flinging his arms out to catch himself. “No,” he coughs again, “I haven’t been elusive. I’m not elusive. When have I ever been elusive?”

“Let’s see,” I say, sliding smoothly onto Gerard’s lap so that I’m straddling his hips. I lean forward to whisper into his ear, “How bout for the entire time I’ve known you?” Letting my teeth graze his earlobe, I allow my hands wander up his chest. I hope I’m being seductive rather than awkward, and by the way Gerard’s breathing picks up I think it’s working.

_I can tell you for a fact you’re just being incredibly awkward_ , my brain hedges.

_Shut up_ , I hum distractedly as I nip at his earlobe, and I can feel him shiver all the way down his spine. His hands come to rest on my thighs automatically.

“Frank,” he groans directly into my ear.

I can feel my body reacting to him and I promptly pull away, standing quickly and traipsing to the door again. “But I guess if you don’t feel the same, I’ll have to leave,” I announce grandly, reaching for the handle.

He’s a little slower to respond this time, so I actually manage to open the door a few inches before he’s there, shutting the door softly, and pulling my arm back to the couch. “Frank,” he sighs in exasperation, “sit down.” I follow his instructions and watch him expectantly. Gerard starts pacing back and forth in front of the couch. He opens his mouth to speak a few times but then decides against it, and resumes pacing.

“Oh for god’s sake!” I exclaim after about a minute of this. “It’s not that damn hard to say, is it? I love you! Okay? Unless you don’t fucking feel the same and then you better damn-well tell me.” I’m so angry all I can do is cross my arms and glare at the floor.

_What an ass_ , my brain sympathizes.

Gerard stops pacing, and finally approaches me, kneeling down at my feet so that I have to look at him. He’s so pale he’s almost transparent against his dark, bloody hair. _He should probably take a shower soon_ , I muse, but I have to admit there is something oddly sexy about Gerard covered in blood.

_Gross_ , my brain adds.

“Frank,” Gerard says tentatively, taking my right hand in his own. “I don’t want to tell you this just because people tried to kill us. I don’t want the first time you hear this to be because I’m afraid. We’re both messes right now, and my jaw hurts like the fucking Titanic crashed into it, and a few hours ago I thought you were going to die because of me. That was the worst moment of my life.” He takes in a ragged breath, and I slide off the couch to kneel with him.

“I don’t care if it’s not your ideal timing, Gee,” I whisper, cupping his jaw with my free hand. “That doesn’t make it any less meaningful.”

Gerard searches my eyes, looking more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen this usually unflappable man. Finally he sighs. “I don’t want you to think that I don’t…care. I do. I…just don’t want you to think that the reason I’m telling you at all is because of what happened today. But,” he continues, sitting back on his heels like he’s bracing himself, “I love you, Frank. I really do.”

I can’t stop the grin that spreads across my face, even though Gerard is looking so somber, and I fling my arms around his neck. “And I love you,” I laugh happily, and the force of my hug knocks us both over to the ground. Gerard tightens his grip on me and nuzzles his face in my neck. “But you know what we should do now?” I ask breathlessly.

“What?” he growls into my skin, making me shiver.

“Get you showered off,” I say, patting his hair for emphasis.

Gerard groans, and pulls away from me so he can see my face. “Right _now_?” he pouts, his lips set in a petulant frown.

Grinning, I lean up to his ear and murmur, “I didn’t say you had to do it alone.”

Gerard practically leaps up, pulling me with him as he scrambles toward the bathroom.

“Wait,” I chuckle, pushing him against the doorframe. “Before you wash that off….” I trail off as I run my fingers through his sticky hair. He licks his lips subtly, and before I know it we’re kissing, our mouths molding together like they were made to fit into each other. Our breaths turn to gasps and our hands are grasping at different parts of each other’s bodies: arms, hair, neck, shoulders, thighs. _Even when he’s not talking, he drives me crazy._

Eventually, we mutually decide to breathe, and we lean our foreheads together as we suck in air. I open my eyes so I can look into his hazel ones, and say—and for the first time it’s of my own initiative and without fear of rejection, without worry that he’ll pull away—“I love you.” The words feel like warm honey on my tongue.

Gerard pulls me into the bathroom completely, and, shutting the door behind us, he whispers against my lips: “And I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love feedback! Thank you to all those who left kudos and/or commented! I really appreciate it!!


	28. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue: 60 Years Later

_“Hey,” Gerard whispers, nudging me awake. “Hey, Frank.”_

_“What?” I groan, rubbing my sleepy eyes._

_He grins impishly. “I love you.”_

_I tousle his hair affectionately. “I know,” I say, smiling tiredly. “I love you too. I’d just appreciate you refraining from telling me when I’m trying to sleep.”_

_He finds my hand with his. “It couldn’t wait.”_

_Even though I’m grumpy and only semiconscious, I chuckle slightly. “I love you,” I say again, and close my eyes, snuggling closer to him._

_After a silence, I start to drift off to sleep again when—“Frank?”_

_“_ Christ _, Gerard, what_ now _?” I groan._ Shut up _, my brain adds grouchily._

_He pauses. “You know what I love most, after you and my family?”_

_“Uh, murder?” I venture with a yawn._

_“The rain,” he says quietly._

_I prop myself up on my elbow, and look at him. He looks far away. “The rain,” I repeat. He nods, and black hair falls into his face. I brush it behind his ear. “How did I not know this?” I leave my hand on his cheek._

_He smiles, blinking back to the moment, and rests his hand on mine. He tells me softly, “I wanted you to know that.”_

_“Only just now?” I ask. “Why?”_

_Gerard squeezes my hand. “I’m sorry.”_

_“What are you sorry for?” Suddenly I’m panicking._ Sorry? Sorry for what? What is he sorry for? What happened?

_“Frank, I—”_

_“No,” I say, because I know what he’s going to tell me and I can’t bear to hear it._

_“Frank.” That’s it. That’s all he says, and I know as he ages before my eyes, as we both age to be old men, and as his eyes gloss over with the film of death, there is no avoiding reality._ It’s just you and I, but only your starless eyes remain….

 

My eyes open slowly. There is no warm body beside mine. It unsettles me to the core. For sixty years, he’s been there. And now he’s gone. All that time we were together, and it still wasn’t enough.

Getting up is hard. Not because of my age, but because of the depression pushing down on me. Gerard was a bright sun, shining in the darkness, but now that the light has gone out, it’s even darker than before.

Do old people ever kill themselves? I’ve personally never heard of it. But it must’ve happened before. _And if not, you can be the first_ , my brain puts in stoically.

_You’re a bad influence_ , I reply.

_Really?_ my brain asks sarcastically. _Well, that’s not good, seeing as I’m your conscience._

I ignore it. _He would have turned eighty-two today_ , I think sadly.

_It’s time_ , my brain whispers.

I sigh heavily. _I know._

* * *

His headstone is only a few months old. You’d think the shock would have worn off by now, but every time I see his name carved into that stone, it hits me like a blow to the stomach. _He’s dead. He’s really dead. It’s not a dream. He’s gone._

I didn’t bring flowers. They only wilt away. A few old and shriveled petals cling to the ground at the base of the headstone, but I brush them off in revulsion.

_He wouldn’t want this, you know_ , my brain comments somberly.

_He’s dead_ , I reply, emotionless.

_We’re alone again_ , my brain says in what sounds like surprise.

_Yes_ , I agree. How strange it feels.

_Are you ready now?_ my brain queries.

I take a deep breath. _I think I’ve been ready my whole life_ , I respond distantly.

The gun is already loaded; I don’t bother to check. Three bullets. I had to.

_So sentimental_ , my brain remarks, but there is no judgement present in its tone. I raise the gun to my mouth.

_We never thought we’d grow old_ , my brain converses calmly.

_You never did_ , I reply. _I’m the one who got old._

_We’re the same person, Frank_ , my brain reprimands. _Don’t forget that._

A small smile graces my lips. _I just wanted to hear you say that,_ I tell it fondly. And that is our silent farewell. Lifelong companions, silenced before the bullet even comes. There’s only one thing left to do.

I go back, back, back, to that night I sat against that dirty dumpster, prepared to end my misery once and for all. A man runs into view. He’s grinning. Red hair flies around his angelic face. He is so beautiful. And I feel the weight of his gaze as it touches mine. My smile is for him alone. My heart belongs to him from then on. He sprints towards me. Three men are chasing him. He snatches the gun from me and kills his pursuers. Stalking towards me, he smiles maniacally. Oh, how I love that smile. How I miss it.

“You killed them,” I say softly, because that’s what I said.

“No,” he contradicts me, and I swear his eyes are sad for a brief moment. “ _You_ killed them. And then you killed _yourself._ ”

I let myself think one last thought. _This is how I disappear._

“Don’t be scared,” he tells me reassuringly. Then, together, we pull the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I love feedback! And I'm sorry for the sad ending


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